Hearts of Gold (6 page)

‘Would you call me Sarry, like my pa used to?’ she said.

He nodded, picked up his shovel, pan and pickaxe and placed them in the wheelbarrow. ‘I’m going off to do some work now. I’ll be within shouting distance today if you need me. And if you go into town don’t wear your mother’s dress in case those people see it and come after us. I don’t want any trouble.’

‘Can I come with you and earn my twenty per cent? I can dry blow the dust.’

‘I’m not wasting my time with dust. I’m looking for nuggets, or a quartz outcrop that contains gold veins. The man who sold me the claim said he got lost in a dust storm and saw it poking up out of the earth. Of course, that could have been outside the claim, but since nobody but he and I have come this far out yet, I’ll consider anything beyond my legal boundary of fifty by one hundred feet, mine to explore . . . until someone pegs it, that is.’

‘So why didn’t your reverend stay here and uncover it for himself?’

‘He was taken ill. When he recovered he couldn’t find it again.’

‘A likely story.’

‘As likely as not, I agree. But the man was the clergyman I bought Hercules from. His words had the ring of honesty about them, but then so do those of most good confidence tricksters, so you could be right. There’s a book on the bedside table called David Copperfield. The author is Charles Dickens. If you have nothing better to do you can start reading that. I’ll be home before dark.’

Off he went with Hercules following after.

She found the book where he’d said and opened it to the first page of the first chapter, where she read: ‘I AM BORN. Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anyone else, these pages must show.’ She read on a little more, stumbling over the more difficult words. Excitement filled her. Just what Mr John had said. This book was the journal of a man’s life. She couldn’t wait to start on one of her own.

True to his promise, John Kern came home just before dark, preceded by snatches of hymn singing. It was the time of day when the sun was low and the sky was a dusty molten orange melting into the trees. The heat of the day had become a bearable warmth.

She went to the door and beamed a smile at him, full of the delight of what she’d read, and eager to discuss it with him.

He dismounted and fell flat on his face. Hercules’s snicker sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

When Sarette rushed to help him to his feet she smelled whisky on his breath. He stood there swaying, a wide smile on his face, but a smile that didn’t make him look any the less menacing, so she began to think there might be some truth to what he’d declared his former profession to have been.

She whispered, ‘Mr John . . . I think you’re drunk.’

He reached out and gently touched her face. ‘Aye, I think I might be, my sweet little apparition. It helps me through the night, when demons stalk.’

A rush of disappointment filled her because the man she was beginning to respect was flawed. ‘I’ll help you inside and get you some dinner. It’s stew with barley in, and I’ve made some bread.’

‘I’ll sup your stew and eat your bread, then I’ll sleep. Will you guard me till daylight returns?’

‘I’ll name you in my prayers, after I name my parents, and I’ll remember Hercules as well.’

John snorted, and so did Hercules.

The following day John was back to normal. Putting Hercules between the shafts of a small cart he went into town and came back with a flitch of smoked bacon, the inevitable dried apples and two gallons of water. There were two hens in a crate.

‘I thought it would be nice to have an egg to go with the bacon.’

A good thought, but one that proved impracticable. Sarette was delighted with them and named them Betty and Jean. John built them a wire run and the chickens scratched about in the dirt, their efforts uncovered a few flecks of gold to add to her matchbox. But before they’d settled in enough to lay an egg a snake got in through the wire and swallowed them both. The snake was lying on the floor of the run when they came back from town, trapped there by its own stomach, which was too distended to push through the wire again.

Her blood ran cold when she saw the lethal greyish brown creature. She stood and stared at it, mesmerized, and trembling. Her heart was filled with loathing. She was unable to tear her eyes away.

John came between her and the chicken run. He took her by the arms and led her inside. He went out again. A minute later there came the sound of a shot. She rushed outside and caught a quick glimpse of the snake writhing about in its death throes before she turned and was sick into the undergrowth.

‘So much for them being here first,’ she said shakily.

‘It was my fault. I should have realized that the chickens would attract snakes.’

A year passed by, the winter bringing a little relief from the heat, but no relief from the water shortage. The town began to grow and the wide streets were crowded with teams of camels and horses. People thronged in the town. There was talk of a railway being planned, of a water condenser, then of a water pipeline to Kalgoorlie from Perth. Lawbreaking became common. Sarette wasn’t allowed into town by herself.

A photographer came and took a photograph of them standing outside the hut, John with his rifle in hand. He bought them a copy each to keep inside their journals. He taught her to shoot his pistol as well as the rifle, and she proved to be a good shot.

Sarette had made her own routine. John had always politely declined to take her when he went looking for his reef of gold, so she’d stopped asking. He found a couple of small nuggets, with which he paid his bill at the store, and the next week the sound of his pick took on a feverish intensity.

‘Just enough to encourage a man,’ was the way he put it.

Sarette’s dry panning was painstakingly slow but she made steady progress and her matchbox began to gain weight.

Inevitably, John came home the worse for drink. Far from making him abusive, it brought out the gentleman in him, though that gentleman was often melancholy, especially when he talked of his home.

‘You would like Fierce Eagles, Sarry,’ he said, one day when he was in a nostalgic mood. ‘It has a view down a hill to a little cove, where my forebears used to bring the goods ashore. My grandfather and his father before him were both magistrates, despite their other professions. Everyone knew what they got up to. Half the town was on their payroll.’

She no longer disbelieved his tales. ‘What sort of goods did you smuggle?’

‘Brandy, wine, wool, tea, tobacco, anything that attracted a tax. The brandy tubs used to be sunk on a weighted line at a prearranged spot, and the boats would go out with grapnels, creep along the water channels and hook them up. Sometimes boats came into the cove if the tide was right, and whatever they carried would be taken up to the house and hidden in the cellars. Fierce Eagles has an extensive network of cellars, and there’s a secret room down there. The key hangs on the wall outside.’

Her eyes widened. ‘What’s secret about it?’

‘I promised my father I wouldn’t tell anyone what was in there.’

‘But surely . . . when he died.’

He grinned at her. ‘Sorry, my dear, but I made him a promise.’

She didn’t know whether to ask him or not, but curiosity got the better of her. ‘You can tell me. I’d promise not to tell anyone else.’

He gave a bit of a grin, ‘It’s part of the Kern family history.’

‘You mean it’s full of pirate treasure and ill-gotten gains,’ she said, breathless with anticipation.

‘It was once. And that’s all you’ll get out of me.’

‘Did you never get caught . . . or scared?’

‘I had a couple of close calls. My brother was killed by a stray bullet. By that time the family had built up quite a fortune. I had a wife and children to raise and I didn’t want to be parted from them, by death or other means. So I gave it up and settled down.’ He was reflective for a moment, then added soberly, ‘I didn’t imagine that fate would take the innocents and leave me to suffer their loss.’

‘Was the death of your loved ones, your fault?’

‘No, Sarry, but it was my punishment. Magnus is my heir.’

‘Tell me about Magnus Kern. Is he a smuggler and pirate, too? Is he handsome? Does he have a wife?’

He laughed. ‘Magnus looks like me a little. Whether that’s handsome is for you to decide, and no, in his last letter he was still unwed. Do you want to marry him? I could suggest it to him. Though he’s the type of man who has a mind of his own, and as I recall he preferred ladies with a little bit more flesh on them, not a skinny little minnow like you. He would probably reject the suggestion out of hand.’

She felt herself turn a fiery red and protested. ‘He sounds mean and horrible. Don’t you dare suggest it. I’m too young to wed. Besides, a handsome man of fortune who lives in a big house will have many ladies sighing with love for him.’

A grin spread across his face. ‘You’re beginning to think like a woman.’

‘I am not.’

She was subjected to a critical look. ‘You’re beginning to look and act like one too. You must have gained a foot in height over the past year.’

She felt discomfited and didn’t know where to look. It was true that her mother’s skirt fit a little better. And she filled in the bodice a little more. She hollowed her chest. Not that she was large, but her breasts were like small pointing cones, and sometimes the pink nubs became as hard as gum-nuts and she was conscious of them, and of men staring at them, and it made her want to hide away.

His expression became thoughtful and he whistled for Hercules.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Into town . . . I won’t be long.’

He came back looking pleased with himself.

The next morning he was gone again, so was the cart. He returned with Mrs Benstead from the store who, with a basket over her arm, dismounted and said, ‘I can’t stay long.’

‘Shout, when you need me,’ John said. He sat on the cart with his back to them, out of earshot, then took out a knife and began to whittle on a piece of wood.

‘Let’s go inside,’ Mrs Benstead said. ‘Yon man wants me to talk to you.’

Sarette felt mystified. ‘What about?’

‘About what’s going to happen, and before too long by the looks of you.’ Her eyes darted around the interior of the shack, lighting with approval on the sleeping arrangements. She nodded. ‘You keep it clean. He’s a nice man, is Mr Kern. He treats you with respect. Not many men would do that for a girl in your situation. Tell me, have you got the curse yet?’

‘The curse?’

‘Your monthly bleeds?’

‘I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Mrs Benstead.’

Mrs Benstead nodded. ‘Exactly what Mr Kern suggested, that you were ignorant of the womanly things because your ma had died when you were young and you had no one to tell you.’

Half an hour later Sarette was well aware of what being a woman involved. She accepted the package of hemmed linen cloths and safety pins that John had been assured she would need. Mrs Benstead demonstrated how to fold them. ‘Now, dear, just you remember what I told you. You might get some cramps, but don’t you worry about that too much, since it’ll go after a few hours. And if you boil the cloths in a bucket with soap added, the stains will soon go away.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Benstead,’ she said.

‘You be careful of the men from now on, Sarry. Men can be mighty persuasive when the mood’s on them, and you don’t want no baby planted inside you until you’re married. So mark my words. Men don’t marry girls who are loose with them, if you get my meaning.’

Sarette nodded. ‘I won’t be loose with them, I promise.’

‘Good girl. Now you come and see me if you need any more advice. I won’t mind.’

‘Yes, I will,’ she said politely as Mrs Benstead took her leave and headed for the cart.

When John came back from town the second time he had a parcel for her and a slightly embarrassed look on his face. ‘I bought you a new outfit yesterday, but I had to wait for the dressmaker to shorten the hem.’

From the parcel emerged a dark blue skirt, with a puffed sleeved blouse sprigged with printed flowers. To go under it a flannel petticoat, bodice and drawers with lace around the hem and ribbons at the neck. It was all so pretty and soft to wear, and she could have died of delight at being given such a present.

‘Is it all right?’ he said, awkwardly.

She did something she’d never done before. She threw her arms around his neck and gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Mr John. You’re so kind.’

He was laughing now. ‘Well, don’t tell anyone. Go and try it on so I can see you in it and admire you.’

She felt shy when she came back dressed in her finery. She held her skirts up off the dusty ground and paraded around.

‘You look lovely, Sarry. All the men will be after you soon and I’ll lose you.’

After what Mrs Benstead had told her she had no intention of ever getting married. ‘You won’t lose me, unless you send me away, because I’ll never be loose with men.’

John tried to hide his smile as he thought: Send her away? He’d never do that. Sarette’s company made him happy. She prevented him from feeling sorry for himself and gave him someone to be responsible for.

As he gazed at the youthful bloom on her face and her innocent eyes, he knew he was being selfish. The climate wasn’t kind to women. In ten years the dry air and the harsh sun would wreak havoc on her. By the time she was thirty her skin would be like stringy tanned leather and she’d look fifty.

John doubted if he’d be here to see it, and his heart gave a wrench. He must put his dreams of gold aside and do something for her. After all, he had more than enough money for his needs.

He’d give himself another year. By that time she’d be fully developed. He’d grown to love Sarette. Not as a man loved a woman with body and soul, for drink had dulled his male urges. Not even as he’d loved his daughter, for that had been a tender and emotional connection. He loved Sarette for her courage and honesty, and he valued her companionship. That decided, he told her, ‘Your parents would be proud of you, girl.’