A Greater World (12 page)

It was one big room. Everything was a jumble. Against the rear wall was a large unmade bed, its covers slipping onto the floor. The bedclothes looked as if they hadn't been laundered in months. Beside the bed, a small table made from a tree-stump and a piece of plank, bore an oil lamp and a dirty glass. She picked up the glass and saw there was a thick culture growing inside on the residue of what might once have been beer. A table was shoved under another window, which had the same quasi shuttering as the other - this time propped on the table, there being no windowsill. She reached up and undid the string and lifted the wood to the ground. The windowpane was as dirty as its fellow, but with a crack running from top to bottom ending in a triangular hole. On the table was a bowl of dirty dishes, the remains of a mouldy loaf, an onion that was oozing liquid and competing with the bread, the dishes and the whisky glass in a mould-growing contest. A rag rug lay on the floor, pieces of grubby ribbon fraying at the edges. It looked as though whatever she had heard scuttling away when she'd entered, had been devouring the rug. A stove stood in one corner, its surface covered in grease and baked-on food. The only other furniture was a rocking chair, draped with clothing, and a large, battered trunk.

Depressed and dispirited, Elizabeth went outside and sat on the edge of the crumbling veranda, her head in her hands. She would not cry. She was past crying. She had no tears left. She thought bitterly of Peggy's words that at least she was marrying a rich man and would want for nothing. If Kidd was a rich man, he did not believe in flaunting his wealth.

When he'd left her at the roadside, telling her he would be gone for a day, she had enjoyed a short-lived pleasure at the prospect of being alone and setting up her home. But this shack was fit only as a home for a pig. But that was what it was. Jack Pig. She allowed herself a smile.

'Elizabeth Morton, you've led a cosseted life: servants to wait on you; agreeable friends to amuse you; nothing too onerous to do, except teach a few charming but talentless children to play the violin. Now let's see what you're made of!' She jumped to her feet.

'I won't let him reduce me to living like a wild creature. I've never done housework before but by God I'll do it now. I'll make this hole a fit place to live if I die in the process!'

An hour later, the contents of the primitive dwelling were stacked on the ground in front of the veranda and Elizabeth, hair piled under a scarf, was at work with a broom. The dust was thick and the broom missing half its bristles. Her throat burned as she laboured, pausing every few minutes to cough. The floor could not have been swept in months, probably years.

Under the bed, amid a jumble of shoes, a dirty plate that had mould growing on the mould, and an assortment of socks and undergarments, she found a rolled up rug. After a hefty beating with a piece of planking over the rail of the veranda, it appeared in reasonable shape and wasn't too faded. It would add a welcome touch of colour to the otherwise drab interior. She consigned the other moth-eaten rag rug to a pile of items to be burned, then set about washing the now clean swept floor.

As the day progressed, she realised she was tired and thirsty. Her pregnancy made her tired after only moderate exertion. Even walking, a pleasure she had always pursued with a passion, wearied her now. She cursed her condition, then pushed the thought to the back of her mind. There was no point in dwelling on it. Better not to think about it. It was too painful to imagine the child growing inside her. With an effort of will, she pulled herself back on her feet and after drinking some water straight from the pump, she pumped a bucketful and set about washing the bedding and then the dishes. At least the effort stopped her from feeling the cold.

As the light began to fade, she stood in the doorway, hands on hips and surveyed her handiwork. The room was still spartan and ugly, but at least it was clean. She had done all she could with the materials available. A couple of old prints of some long-forgotten English town now hung on the wall near the table. She had found them in the bottom of a cupboard. The crockery was clean and neatly stacked on a shelf she had made from an upturned wooden box. When he returned, she would ask Kidd for a hammer, nails and some paint so she could make a more permanent solution. The bed was made up with clean sheets she had found in the trunk. The other sheets were hanging on the washing line. Her finishing touch was a brightly coloured shawl that had taken her fancy when the ship called at Tenerife. She draped it theatrically between a couple of nails across the wall over the bed.

There was one last task she wanted to do before turning in: to burn the pile of rubbish. She could cook the potatoes Kidd had left her in the embers and boil up water for tea. Cleaning the stove inside the house would be her task for tomorrow and meanwhile she would enjoy a meal under the stars tonight. She set about lighting the fire.

'What do you think you're doing, you stupid idiot?'

Before she could turn towards the voice, she was pushed out of the way and landed on the ground like a sack of flour. She struggled to her feet. A young man was pouring a pitcher of water over the still small flames of the bonfire. Discarded on the ground nearby were about half a dozen fish, tied together with string.

'You trying to burn the place down? And everything between here and town? And the whole town too? What the hell do you think you're doing?'

'How dare you!' she yelled. 'Who do you think you are? This is private property. I can burn a fire here if I choose.'

He looked at her, the nascent fire having been quenched. 'Don't you know about bush fires? We've had no rain in weeks and a fire could burn the whole county out and destroy everything in its path. If you want to light one, you dig a hollow first. Then you put in just enough to get it going and add more bit by bit so you can stay in control. Make sure the wind isn't going to blow the sparks straight in the path of a tree or a building. This place is all wood and it's dry as a dead dingo's donger. It'd go up like a box of kindling.'

He was little more than a boy: about sixteen or seventeen, but tall and already quite broad around the chest. His hands looked as though they had already seen a lifetime of labour. Bright white teeth and shaggy blonde hair contrasted with the warm tan of his skin. He wore a checked shirt and dirt-encrusted overalls.

He moved towards her, rubbing his hands down the side of his overalls then stretching one out to her. 'Sorry, Miss. I'm Will Kidd. I didn't mean to shout at you like that. But if you'd seen a bush-fire you'd understand why.'

She took his proffered hand. 'I'm Elizabeth. I didn't know that Mr Kidd had a child?'

'Not just me – there's Harriet too – Hattie we call her - and we've an older brother, Nat, but we haven't seen or heard from him in years. He may be dead'

'Where's Hattie?'

'She lives in town with the schoolteacher. Hattie's eighteen. She's been there since Ma died, five years ago. Pa said it wasn't suitable for a young girl living with us men. But who are you, Miss? Pa didn't tell me to expect a guest.'

'I'm not a guest, Will. Your father and I are married.'

The boy looked stunned. 'Married? Pa? He said nothing about getting hitched.'

'I'm sorry to surprise you like this. It must be quite a shock.'

'I never thought he'd marry again after Ma died. Never seemed to show much interest in anything after she went.'

Elizabeth's capacity for surprise had significantly diminished since landing in Australia. 'I'm sorry Will. It must have been hard for you, losing your mother at such a young age. I lost my mother too just a couple of years ago.' Embarrassed and silently cursing Kidd for placing them both in this situation, she blundered on. 'It must be difficult to get used to your father marrying someone else after your mother. I can't think why he didn't tell you about me. Or me about you for that matter. ' Her voice trailed off in embarrassment.

'You're very welcome here. I'm just surprised – though not that Pa should want to marry you – you're a beautiful lady.' He looked at her wide-eyed.

'I had no idea about you and your brother and sister, Will. I know next to nothing of your father and his circumstances. He was a friend of my own father; I met him only briefly before we married.'

The boy grunted, 'Didn't think the old man had any friends.' He was about to ask another question, then seemed to realise it would be inappropriate to enquire further.

Anticipating his discomfort, Elizabeth said, 'I arrived from England three weeks ago to join my father in Sydney, but he died just a few days earlier.' Her eyes welled with tears. She brushed them away and turned her head so the boy would not notice.

'That's real sad' he said. 'You coming all that way and getting here too late.' His voice was tender and he moved towards her. 'I expect you're feeling pretty low. I know I was when Ma died. Pa and I never had much to say to each other and since she went, we hardly speak at all. I miss her. And your Ma's dead too?'

Elizabeth frowned.

'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. I always say more than I should. If Pa were here he'd tell me to shut it – or like as not belt me round the ears.' He smiled shyly.

'That's all right, Will. Call me Elizabeth. I do hope we can be friends.'

The boy grinned at her. 'I saw Pa in town today and he told me to get back here and clear the place up a bit. Didn't say why though. I'm sorry it's such a mess. I sleep in the hut there – I like to keep out of the old man's way – but I know the house is a bit of a tip. I'll get started right now.' He bounded up the step and stopped on the threshold, giving a long whistle.

'You've done a fine job – you must have worked real hard. It looks like a home. When Ma was alive she grew veggies at the back and flowers in front. She was always getting on at Pa to fix things up nicer. But he's never been one for spending money – and when she passed away the place went to rack and ruin. Pa and I never seem to have time and I don't think we'd noticed how bad it got – least not until now you've made it clean. All that dirt and mess just crept up on us. It's mostly just me here these days. Pa spends most of his time in town.'

Elizabeth smiled. 'It'd look better if I had some cleaning materials – I did this with just plain water. Once I get some washing soda and some soap – and a decent broom, I can do a proper job.'

Her tummy rumbled and she said 'I was about to cook some potatoes on that fire that you've doused into oblivion. How about digging me one of those hollows you were talking about and I'll fix us a meal and boil up some tea.'

'I'll gut the fish and we can cook them with the spuds.'

'Perfect.'

Before long they were seated side by side on the rug she had dragged out of the house, wrapped in warm blankets in the glow of the fire, sipping tea and enjoying the aroma of baking potatoes and river perch. The moon glowed behind the branches of the eucalyptus and cast a silvery sheen over the house, giving it a ghostly and yet beautiful appearance.

Elizabeth liked the boy already and marvelled at the difference between him and his taciturn father. He was a good-looking lad; both his personality and his looks must have been attributable to his mother as there was no trace of Jack Kidd in him. He chatted happily and freely and took her presence here for granted.

'What do you do all day, Will? Do you go to school?'

The boy laughed. 'Pa doesn't hold with schools or book learning. The only reason Hattie went to school was to keep her off his hands when Ma died and Miss Radley, the teacher up in town offered to take her in. Pa can read and write and Ma made sure Nat, Hattie and I could too. What learning Nat and I got came from Ma. When she died that was the end of it.'

'What a pity. Lessons are important. If you want to have a choice about your future, a good education is essential.'

'There's no time. Pa expects me to look after this place and since I was seven years old I've been working. We have sheep and a milk cow and there's veggies in the big plot down near the creek. There's always a fence to mend and things like that to do. Pa expects that my future's here. I know different, but there's no use telling him as there'd be trouble - like with Nat. When Ma was alive she spent all her time coming between him and Pa.'

'When did she die?'

'Five years ago – I'd just turned twelve, Hat was thirteen and Nat was sixteen. He left after she died. He and Pa fought real bad. I was glad he'd gone. It's quieter round here these days. Ma stopped them fighting but once she got ill it was terrible. They screamed and shouted and Ma was sick in her bed so she could do nothing. I hated it.'

'I'm sorry, Will. It must have been awful. Where's Nat now?'

'Who knows? He just buggered off. Took his horse and left and we've heard nothing since. I reckon he signed up. Probably got himself killed over there in the war. There are people reckon he fell into the canyon. I don't miss him. He was real mean. I know I shouldn't speak evil of a brother but I can't help it. He was bad and I don't care if God strikes me dead for saying that.' He threw a stone into the dying embers of the fire.

Elizabeth reached out and touched his arm. 'I understand. I have a sister and I never want to see her or her evil husband again as long as I live, so I know how you feel.'

'You do?' He turned to her eagerly. 'We've got something in common then, Miss.'

'Elizabeth, please! Yes I suppose we have.'