Undercurrents Page 5

  The sun beat down mercilessly as they slithered and sweated up the ever–shifting dune that seemed determined to keep them on the shore. Seabirds wailed overhead in mournful accompaniment to the moans of exhaustion as they struggled onwards towards, what they all hoped, was deliverance.

  Eva tore a strip from her petticoat and covered her head as she and Jessie scrambled on their hands and knees from one tenuous purchase to another. Despite the makeshift veil, Eva felt the sun burning her exposed shoulders. Felt it hammering on her skull, bringing an almost blinding headache to thud behind her eyes. Yet she knew the sailor had been right. For when she looked behind her the sea was empty. There would be no rescue. Their survival was in their own hands.

  One by one they reached the summit. Hands reached down to help those lagging behind, and once they’d caught their breath they dared to look around them.

  The land stretched to every horizon. Blood–red, hostile and silent, it shimmered beneath the vast sky. Pale grass formed a shifting, endless sea against the alien earth, the few trees bent in arthritic torture from their exposure to the wind. And high above them soared the dark, circling presence of great birds of prey.

  The little group was silent as Eva fell to her knees and stared around her. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting. But it wasn’t this awful desolation. In a daze of pain and despair, she watched the seaman stride out. Watched him carefully pluck the thick leaf from a spiny bush and put it to his mouth. Watched his throat as he swallowed. ‘Water,’ she rasped. ‘He’s found water.’

  They gathered around him and followed his lead. The water was brackish, but Eva thought she’d never tasted anything as wonderful. ‘How did you know it was here?’ she asked in awe.

  ‘Native trick,’ he replied shortly. ‘Seen ‘em do it many a time when I were here afore.’

  ‘You’ve been here before?’ Eva carefully licked the final few drops from her cracked lips. ‘Do you have any idea of where we are? Of how far we’ll have to walk?’

  He stared out over the land for a long moment before his gaze settled back on her face. ‘We’re lucky,’ he growled. ‘Nearest town’s about a hundred miles away.’ He pointed north, then must have read the horror in her eyes. ‘We’ll make a shelter and stay here during the day and travel at night. Moon’s up, it’ll light the way.’

  The little party of survivors made a rough shelter by hanging coats and petticoats and shirts over the drooping branches of a nearby tree. They huddled in silence all through the interminable day, moving only to wave away the worrisome flies that hovered and buzzed and settled. They crawled over mouths and eyes and explored every inch of exposed flesh until Eva thought she would go mad. How could she ever have thought Australia would be an adventure? Why on earth did anyone choose to live here – and how did they survive this fearsome, deadly sun? Yet far more terrifying was the thought she would have to walk so far. A hundred miles, he’d said. A hundred miles. It was surely impossible.

  Night fell swiftly and the breeze coming off the sea cooled burned flesh and brought a measure of relief. Then they were walking, their feet lifting the red earth in clouds of dust, the women’s skirts hampering every step as they dragged in the dirt and caught on the spiny needles of unseen scrub. There was silence within the group. Strengths were found where once there had been weakness. Courage dredged from wells of resilience never before realised. For the will to live was the most powerful emotion of all.

  Eva walked beside Jessie, gaze fixed to the horizon, each step bringing her closer to what she prayed was a safe haven. She would not be beaten despite the chaffing of her shoe against her heel – despite the burning on her shoulders where the sun had seared them almost raw. She looked across at the other woman and saw the determination on her face that surely mirrored her own. Their eyes met, and with a brief smile that barely touched their tortured lips they returned once more to their inner thoughts.

  Dawn had lightened the sky with streaks of pink and orange when the cloud of dust was spotted far off towards the horizon. They stumbled to a halt, each shielding their eyes against the glare, peering intensely at this phenomenon.

  A murmur rustled through them as they puzzled as to what it might mean. The murmur grew as they began to trek towards it. Speculation was rife. Fear almost tangible as someone suggested it could be a dust storm, or marauding black fellows.

  The cloud grew nearer and the wavering form of something moved within it. Yet it was too far away to discern what it could be and their steps were less sure as they set off again. Fear slowed them as they straggled across the rough terrain, but their gaze never faltered from that looming, ominous cloud.

  Eva stumbled alongside Jessie as the cloud grew and tiny, dark forms wavered at its heart. She stopped walking, her hand shielding her eyes as she tried to believe what she was seeing. ‘It’s a wagon,’ she breathed. ‘A horse and wagon.’ Tears began to stream down her sunburned face and for once she didn’t bother to wave away the flies. ‘We’re safe. We’re safe,’ she sobbed.

  The survivors stood and waited as the cloud drifted on the wind and the wagon drew near. Now they could hear the shouts, the crack of the whip and the thunder of the hoofs of the outriders. Now they could make out the jingle of harness, the rattle and jolt of the wagon as it sped across the rough terrain.

  Eva took Jessie’s hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘I never did thank you for saving me,’ she said quietly. ‘I would have drowned if you hadn’t pulled me out of the bottom of the boat.’

  Jessie returned the pressure on her fingers. ‘We helped each other,’ she said gruffly. ‘You kept me going, you know,’ she said with a wan smile. ‘I weren’t about to let you beat me – not a lady who never walked further than the ‘ouse to her carriage.’

  Eva nodded and silently accepted the truth of her words. She had kept going because she felt it was her duty to set an example to the lower classes – but in truth she didn’t want to show any weakness in front of this tough, determined little cockney – and that had given her the will to go on when she thought she was finished.

  The wagon was nearer now, the dust rising from beneath the wheels and the horses’ hoofs’ swirling in choking clouds around the onlookers. Eva pulled the makeshift veil over her mouth and nose and closed her eyes to slits as the rescuers came to a thundering halt.

  She was about to join in the joyous greetings when she caught sight of a figure at the back of the wagon. She stilled, her pulse racing, her mind confused.

  The man jumped down from the wagon and strode towards her, arms outstretched and so wonderfully familiar.

  ‘Freddy?’ Her voice broke as he swept her into his embrace. ‘Oh, Freddy,’ she sobbed. ‘I thought I’d never see you again.’

  4

  Maggie’s temper evaporated as she strode down the street towards the beach. She had said her piece and made it plain she wouldn’t be messed about any longer. Yet they both knew she would never leave – for where else would she go? She had no family waiting for her. No home to return to. Nothing.

  Kicking off her shoes she began to tramp along the sand, relishing the warmth on her bare feet and the tug on the backs of her legs as she forced the pace. The night air was velvet, the breeze from the sea refreshing after the awful heat of the kitchen. Her smile was wry as she remembered the sheepish look on Sam’s face, and the hopeful look in his eyes as he presented her with the fish. Typical man, she thought. As if a bit of fish could make up for anything.

  She finally eased off the pace. It was no surprise to discover where her walk had taken her, and she regarded her surroundings with little emotion. Things could have been so different, she thought wistfully. If only … She squared her shoulders and turned away, determined not to let those thoughts take over. There was no profit in wishing for something that would never happen. No point in dreaming. For there was nothing here for her, and never had been. The lesson had been a harsh one and sh
e wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  Maggie began the long trek back to the road. Her lack of emotion was a sign she was healing. A sign, that no matter what, she would remain here and make the best of things. She had to stop running sometime. Had to put the dark years behind her and begin again.

  The hotel was in darkness when she finally returned, and after living in Sydney for so many years she still found it strange that people went to bed so early up here in Queensland. For she’d forgotten how she used to rise before the sun each day. Forgotten the long hours spent working on the cattle station and the weariness as the sun finally set. It was a different way of life from the one she’d had in the city, and she was thankful to be a part of it again.

  The slab wood cabin was set in the far corner of the plot, well away from the stables and the noise of the hotel bar. Consisting of one room that had been divided into three, it was nevertheless furnished comfortably. Maggie had set the double bed in the far corner, and had placed her favourite trinkets on the dresser. The rather rickety table and two chairs stood in the centre of the cabin, the couch and armchair on either side of the stone fireplace. A curtained–off area served as a bathroom, but as water had to be pumped from the bore, this consisted of an enamel sink, a jug and bowl and a chamber pot stored away in a cupboard. The dunny out the back was dark and spider–infested, and after the luxury of indoor facilities in Sydney, she’d refused to use it.

  Maggie opened the door and lit the kerosene lamp. The cabin felt like home, and it was a luxury not to be sharing a dormitory like she had in the city. She looked around in satisfaction at her pictures pinned to the wooden walls, and her china ornaments laid out on the polished pine mantelpiece. With a vast yawn she dragged off her clothes, pumped water into the sink and began to wash. The water was from the bore and had a faint aroma of sulphur, but it was hot and welcoming.

  With a towel wrapped around her, she took the pins from her hair and let it fall around her shoulders and down her back. She was too tired to wash it again tonight, and as she was determined to take the next day off she had plenty of time. Sitting on the bed, she began to brush away the tangles of the day, her thoughts drifting to the English visitors.

  The cinema had been her passion when she was down in Sydney, and she and the other girls from the clothing factory would sit in the darkness and be carried into a world far distant from the one they knew. Maggie grinned as she thought of Giles. He reminded her of Laurence Olivier, and she loved the way he talked – all plummy and terribly stiff upper lip. She giggled. Olivia was just the same, and she wouldn’t mind betting she was a stickler on the wards – just like those overseers in the factory.

  Maggie tossed the brush aside and pulled on the cotton nightdress. Climbing into bed, she pummelled the pillows until she was comfortable. Olivia’s clothes were expensively tailored, her hands manicured, her make–up flawless. The two of them must have a lot of money to come all the way over here, but they didn’t have the look of holidaymakers. It was a puzzle, she thought as she watched the lamplight flicker on the ceiling. One that she would probably never solve, for Olivia, as nice as she was, was a bit daunting, and Giles had not been forthcoming when they chatted in the bar before tea.

  She lay there and allowed her thoughts to drift. It had been a long journey to this northern town, and some might have said it was wasted. But, ever the optimist, Maggie saw it as a success. For the journey had supplied some of the answers to the questions that plagued her, and had resulted in a new beginning – a feeling of being settled again and safe for the first time in years. If only Sam would notice her, then her happiness would be complete.

  Maggie’s gaze settled on the photograph on the dresser. The silver frame was tarnished, the images of her beloved parents faded behind the scratched glass. Yet they brought back the memories of a brief, but happy childhood. A childhood that was to be torn apart by tragedy.

  *

  Maggie loved Waverly Station with a passion. It sprawled across the rich farm belt north of Adelaide, swept over gentle hills and down into grassy valleys. The birds always seemed to be singing, and the cattle looked sleek and polished beneath golden skies. Yet she understood the hardships and sacrifices that had to be endured to make Waverly as beautiful as it was, and from the moment she could walk, she’d willingly done her share of work.

  She sat on the fence, legs dangling, wondering when she’d be able to wear the dress her mother had made for her eleventh birthday. It was weeks until the next country fair, and she was impatient to show off the lemon muslin with the puff sleeves and frothy petticoat that swirled around her legs as she danced in front of the long mirror in her parents’ bedroom.

  Yet she’d overheard Mum and Dad talking last night, and realised this was not the time to be thinking about dresses and dances. Dad was worried about the feed bills, the stockmen’s wages and the next payment on the land lease. Mum was fretting about the news in the papers – something to do with Wall Street in America. Maggie had gone to sleep the night before puzzling over this. How could some street in America affect Waverly? But she didn’t like to ask, because she shouldn’t have been listening in when she was thought to be asleep.

  With a deep sigh she climbed down and went to fetch the last of the feed buckets. Filling the troughs was her final chore of the day, and although she hated hearing the calves bellowing for their mothers, she knew they’d soon calm down. The sounds and scents of Waverly were so much a part of her that she had learned very early on there was little time for misguided sentiment. The animals were well cared for on Waverly, but they had to be rounded up, castrated and spayed and either sold for slaughter or kept for breeding.

  Maggie fed the calves, checked their water and waved to her father as he eased off his boots and collapsed in a chair on the verandah. As she finished tidying up, she repeatedly glanced across at the old house that had taken on a golden glow as the sun began to die in the west.

  The homestead had been built almost a hundred years ago by her dad’s grandfather. It had settled into the earth, the slab walls and corrugated–iron roof weighed down with creeping flowers and ivy. Any breeze could blow through the cracks between the slabs and under the roof where the joists were buckled. Cool in the summer, the homestead was freezing in the bitter nights of the outback winter. The wooden steps leading up to the verandah had been replaced recently, but the termites had already started to chew them away. The roof was patched and undulated like a swayback horse, and the screens on the windows and doors needed a coat of paint and a touch of oil. The verandah railings had been bleached by the sun, and the planks on the floor needed nailing more firmly down. Yet it was home, and Maggie could never imagine living anywhere else. She finally joined her dad in the shade and sat in her favourite rocking chair.

  Harold Finlay rolled a cigarette as he narrowed his eyes and peered from beneath the brim of his hat out to the spread of land. He was a man of few words, but Maggie knew he loved her. It was in the smile that creased the corners of his eyes and enhanced the etching of lines on his face. It was in the gentle touch of his hand that was encrusted with years of ingrained dirt and callused by a lifetime of labour.

  ‘Yer ma’s late getting back,’ he murmured as he struck a match.

  ‘I’ll get tea,’ Maggie offered. ‘She’s probably yarning with Betty Richards and forgotten the time.’

  Harold Finlay nodded and continued to stare out over his land as the cigarette burned between his lips. ‘Reckon you’d be right, luv,’ he muttered.

  Maggie’s gaze swept the horizon. The sun was almost gone and it was a long ride back from the Richards’ place. Not wanting to voice her concern, she patted her father’s shoulder and left the verandah to prepare the evening meal.

  The potatoes were cooked and mashed, the salted beef sliced, the bread warmed in the range and filling the homestead with its mouth–watering aroma. Maggie smeared the sweat from her face and returned ag
ain to the verandah. The kitchen was like a furnace. ‘Tea’s ready,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll eat when yer ma gets back,’ he replied as he stood and searched the surrounding hills.

  Maggie saw how his knuckles whitened as he gripped the railings. Saw how set his expression was, how deep the lines running either side of his mouth. A shaft of fear drove through her and she struggled to contain it. ‘She’ll be here any minute,’ she said with forced brightness.

  He looked down at her, his eyes mirroring his unspoken fears. ‘Think I’ll ride out and meet her,’ he murmured. ‘You stay here.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m coming too,’ she said firmly.

  Harold Finlay regarded her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. ‘Reckon you’d be better off here, darlin’,’ he said finally. ‘Not good for you to be out after dark.’

  Maggie frowned. Dad must really be worried. She had often ridden at night, and had joined the annual round–up at eight years old. She was used to riding her tough little pony through the hot days and bitter nights. Used to sleeping on the ground under the stars with only a saddle as a pillow and a thin blanket against the chill. Used to being far from the homestead for weeks on end with only the men for company. She didn’t bother to reply, merely left the verandah and began to saddle her pony.

  Harold followed her, and as they rode out through the first of the gates that would lead them to the track, he touched her elbow. ‘Thanks,’ he said softly. ‘Reckon I needed the company after all.’

  Maggie saw the dread in his eyes and swallowed. Mum had to be all right. She just had to. Yet the Richards’ homestead was over thirty miles away, and Mum had been there enough times to know she had to start the journey back by mid–afternoon, or it would be dark before she reached home. Maggie knew there had been no calls over the two–way, so Mum must have left. But where could she be?