Sarah Thornhill (25 page)

I hesitated to ask Daunt if we could name the baby Sarah, since it was my own name, but I wanted to draw my mother, that other Sarah, into this new life. Daunt was more than happy, he said, to have not one Sarah but two, and the baby could be Sadie in case anyone should mistake the mother for the child.

Celia was for his own mother. He was surprised when I suggested it, but it seemed a courtesy to have both the grandmothers named.

When the dray brought the
Gazette
, Daunt showed me the piece that told the world that Mr and Mrs John David Daunt had been blessed with a daughter Sarah Celia Daunt. He cut the piece out, wedged it up on the wall above the cradle.

Sarah Celia Daunt, he said. Ah Sarah dear, this is the happiest time of my life, I tell you that for nothing.

I'd never until that moment wished I could read, but looked at the scrap of paper now and saw how words written down made something last. Written down, it was there for all time, never forgotten.

Daunt was a doting father, would come in early from the paddocks to hold the baby on his lap by the fire. Maeve was like the most indulgent granny, kissing her head and rocking her to sleep with an Irish song so sweet and lilting I was asleep myself, hearing her. The days passed in small quiet ways, everything circling round the baby. Feeding her and putting her down to sleep and playing with her when she woke up.

The hill was still my favourite place. I'd go there with Sadie of a late afternoon when the heat was gone out of the sun, spread out a rug and peel the layers of clothing off her. She kicked her fat legs and clutched at the clouds, crowing and chuckling. So tiny a thing in all that air. I held her up to let her feel the breeze on her nakedness. Let warm summer rain fall on us. She blinked at it on her skin, her body slick as a fish, and I knew life could offer no greater happiness than to watch your child greet the world.

M
A AND PA
sent word they wanted to meet the baby and see how everything was at Glenmire. They'd stop with Mary and Archibald and then come on to us, that was the plan. But Ma fell on the front steps and hurt her leg, so they couldn't come for a time. I was in no great hurry to see them, but would of liked them to bring the girl.

It was a hard weather that year, roads washed away and the creeks running a banker, so it was over the twelvemonth, Sadie sitting up and feeding herself, by the time they planned to travel. We expected them, but weeks passed.

One day I was out on the verandah with Sadie and saw in the distance a man on a horse coming along. Thought it would be word that Ma and Pa wasn't far behind. Daunt saw the horse too, waited with me. As it got closer we could see how fast it was going. A man on a horse coming that fast could only mean bad news.

Mary! I said. Oh God, it's Mary!

Knowing in that instant how I loved that bossy sister of mine. The dust came closer and when I saw the horse I knew it for Star. That meant it was word from Thornhill's.

I ran down to the road, Daunt along with me, and when the rider pulled up and jumped off, it was Jemmy Katter.

Rattled off his piece like he was afraid he might forget.

The New Zealand lass died, Mrs Daunt, he said. Dead this fortnight past.

Dead! I said. Dead how?

Got with child, he said. And died at Mr Scott's.

But she was a child herself, I said. And what's Mr Scott's?

Thought he must of got the message mixed up.

Don't know, Mrs Daunt, Jemmy said. With child, I know that, they say it was the darkie in the stables, the lad Phillip.

I knew then it must be true. But had no time to take it in, because Jemmy had more to say.

Mrs Daunt there's something else, he said. When the news come about the girl dead, Mr Thornhill took some kind of a fit.

A fit, I said. Dead! Not dead!

Not yet, Mrs Daunt, Jemmy said. But the doctor given up on him. Lying like a stone. You want to see him, you best come quick.

Sadie stood clinging to my knees and crying, too little to know what was wrong, only that something was. The girl dead. Oh, the cut of
too late
,
too late
. All those good intentions I'd had. Had for a moment, then forgotten. That poor sad child, beyond any good intentions now.

And Pa dying. Might already be dead. That man I'd thought would be forever. My father, a man like a force of nature, shaping our lives, mine and the girl's both.

I'm sorry, Mrs Daunt, Jemmy said. To be the one has to tell you. Very sorry. But Mrs Daunt, you got to be quick.

Quick, I said. Got to be quick. Yes.

But I could not begin to think how to be quick. How to deal with this thing that had fallen like a boulder into my quiet day.

Go to the house now, Sarah, and sit a moment, Daunt said. He put an arm round me and turned me up the path.

Thank you for your speed, Jemmy, he said. Go through to the kitchen now, Maeve will give you something.

He sat me down in the parlour, took Sadie up on his arm.

I'm very sorry for that news, he said. Sad news of the girl, poor thing. But not too late to see your father. You can be on the road in an hour.

Pa and Ma and the world of the Hawkesbury were removed from me now in so much more than distance. Getting myself there seemed as impossible as a tree pulling its roots out of the dirt and walking.

On the road, I said. How do we, John? I can't do it.

You've got but the one father, Daunt said. You can. We'll make you up a bundle. Put the saddle on Champion. You'll kiss me goodbye and you'll kiss Sadie goodbye and you'll get up in that saddle and ride along with Jemmy.

My daughter and me had never been parted, not for a day, hardly for an hour, since she was born.

I can't leave her, I said. Look at her, a babe still. Have to take her.

You can't take her, Daunt said. Think of it, dear, on the horse.

Of course I saw he was right. He didn't say any more, just took Sadie to the kitchen and I heard her singing along with Maeve, a song they did together, she liked to make out she knew the words. When he came back I was already feeling the lack of her.

You're torn, he said. Wouldn't be the fine loving mother you are if you weren't torn. She might cry once or twice, but it won't last. And for me, Sarah dear, it's the chance to be father and mother both. I'll rise to it, I promise you.

He was so sure, and it seemed that for once in my life I had to be told what to do.

I made up a bundle, put on my strong boots and my warm cloak, and when it was time to go I went into the kitchen and kissed the child, no more than I did a dozen times a day. Got on Champion and leaned forward on his neck. If I'd of looked back I couldn't of left. I was naked without a child in my arms, but Jemmy set a cracking pace and it was as much as I could do to keep up. The way he whipped up the horse, I could see he thought it was going to be a close call.

It was dark when we crossed the punt three days later and urged the horses up the hill to the house. Johnny was waiting at the gate. He'd put on flesh, was red in the face and shiny, and with another fancy waistcoat, satin with mother-o'-pearl buttons.

Dolly, he said. Good to see you, Dolly.

Dolly
felt like another person. Someone I'd known, but long ago. Odd to walk up those front steps with Johnny and into the house over three years later. Everything as it had always been. I knew then just how far I'd travelled.

The others were in the parlour, Bub and Mary and Ma. Bub had always been like a man in his middle years, even as a boy. He'd grown into his older man's slowness and solemness, but still answered to Bub.

Mary was pale and thin, her babies coming too close together. The latest with her, only a few weeks old. She'd set out in the cart, she said, the minute she heard. A baby and a cart and a rough road, she said, never try it, Dolly.

I took the baby and snuffed up his smell, my heart yearning for Sadie. Little Charles felt strange in my arms, so tiny after my daughter. I had a pang of fear for her, stood with my cheek against Charles' downy head and sent a prayer along the miles.
Keep her from harm!

Ma got her arms round me before I could stop her. I stood in her embrace stiff as a lobster. Wanted to go upstairs to Pa, but she held me back.

Know you want to see him, Dolly, she said. But too late now today, he's sleeping. Best let him rest.

Rest
, the word hung in the air, none of us looking at each other. We knew he'd never be rested. Only the last rest, that was what was ahead of Pa.

I was ready to fight her.

I come all this way, I said. To see my Pa.

Now, Dolly, you listen to me, she said. I said no.

There was the steel showing in her voice.

It's me that's his nearest and dearest, she said. Not you. I'm the one decides.

His nearest and dearest! As if a man could only have one near and dear, and she'd made up her mind it'd be her. She'd got our Pa and she wasn't going to share him.

But no one should have to beg to see their own father on his deathbed and I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of denying me again. Sit tight, I said to myself. Just sit tight. Pa, hang on.

Without him the parlour seemed empty. I found myself watching the door for him to come in. He'd always taken up so much of the space in a room. His armchair empty, none of us wanting to sit in it. The bald velvet on the arm where he'd smoothed and smoothed at the nap.

How did it happen? I said. What kind of a fit?

That black girl give your pa his death blow, Ma said.

Johnny crossed one leg over the other, Mary turned her knitting. I thought, they've already heard all this.

Broke the poor old feller's heart, she said. Rutting with the black buck in the stables.

Was it Jingles, did you say, Mary said.

No, the other one, Ma said. Got rid of him quick smart. Got shot of Jingles too. Never liked him and his scowling ways.

Her eyes small with malice. She'd had to be sweetness and light in front of Pa. Now he was gone, or as near as, she could show her true colours.

Broke the poor old fellow's heart, she said again. The way she never said a word. All his kindness and never a word in return.

I knew that for a falsehood. I'd watched Pa with the girl. Enough for him that she was there. He'd never needed chit-chat.

But none of us wanting to argue with her. Johnny looked into the fireplace, Bub was picking at a bit of skin round his thumbnail.

The girl, I said, what happened with that poor child?

I was asking Johnny, but Ma jumped in.

Your pa heard the news right here in this room, she said. The man come and tell us, your pa jumped up out of his chair, I'll never forget the great shout he gave, fell straight down on the floor.

We all looked at the chair, the worn velvet. How he'd loved the feel of the nap under his hand.

I did warn him, she said. Leave her in New Zealand, I told him, she'll only bring trouble. Have them under your roof, nothing but trouble come of it. As we know, don't we.

She was waiting for me to see Jack in her words.

It's the bad blood, she said. The mixed blood.

For a moment I knew what it must of been like for the girl. Living with that hatred till she died of it.

Phillip would of been the only warmth in her days, but that warmth was what killed her. They'd of had a little time, the two of them, like Jack and me.

Then one day the girl would of been standing in a certain way, in a certain light, and Ma would of seen. Would of guessed it was Phillip, or might of seen them together. She'd of got the constable. They'd of found a crime in it somewhere.

Then she'd of asked about. Oh, you want Mr Scott's, someone would of said. Best place for that kind of thing.

One of those places where girls in trouble went.

What lie did Ma cook up, that Pa let her go?

Ma would of taken her to Mr Scott's in the carriage and left her in the corner of some bare-boarded dirty room. They'd of done something to her, stop the baby, if Mr Scott's was that sort of place. Or kept her there till her time, if it was the other sort of place.

Whatever way it had been, in the end the girl was dead. Hardly more than a child herself. Dead, and on her own, with no one near who could speak her tongue or hold her hands.

I had to turn away so they wouldn't see the tears in my eyes. Johnny in his fancy waistcoat, jiggling his foot. Bub looking at his cracked farmer's hands, slanting them into the light. Mary with the stocking in her hands, she was halfway up the leg, head tilted to make sure every stitch went round the needle. They didn't hear the knife in Ma's words.

These people were my family, my blood kin. Brothers and sisters, but no better than strangers as far as our hearts went.