The Bark Cutters (45 page)

Jim raised an eyebrow, the action turning his quizzical scowl at what he considered an overly melodramatic outburst into genuine concern. Something wasn't right here, but it was beyond his control. He turned the ignition, comforted by the familiar rattle of the engine. He cared for her, but he would not ask her to stay. ‘You cannot pass through someone's life, Sarah, without leaving a little of yourself behind.' He accelerated sharply and did not look back.

Mrs Jamieson waited patiently by her side, her arms folded in the pose Sarah would come to remember her by; the pocket on her flowery apron bulging with dust rags and tissues, the perpetual scowl of dissatisfaction and shock of grey hair at odds with the youthful gleam in her eyes. Agreeing to disagree on the subject of revealing Jim's true birthright, they had finally reached a truce that allowed this last moment of companionable silence as Sarah waited for a taxi outside the cottage.

‘One day Ronald Gordon will meet his son and glad he will be to know that the bond between his daughter and young Jim will not be broken by distance or time.'

Sarah hugged the older woman tightly. ‘Tell me one thing, Mrs Jamieson,' she asked, breaking free of her friend's protective arms. ‘How can you decide someone's life for them?'

‘How can you not give your young man in Australia a chance?'

They had only discussed Anthony twice. Once on the arrival of his telegram some days ago and this morning when Mrs Jamieson asked his name. Within seconds Sarah found herself discussing her broken engagement to Jeremy and her grandfather's will. As for Anthony, Sarah knew her friend meant well but Mrs Jamieson was really off-base. The taxi drew up in a shower of gravel.

‘Thank you for everything.' Sarah's mouth stretched flat in thought, ‘Geez, I've made such a mess of things.'

‘Nonsense.'

‘And Anthony changed. I don't think he is the same anymore. And there are so many stipulations and options and –'

‘Rubbish, lass. It is strength of belief that is required. You think you have to make choices, but you don't. Your life is waiting for you. Now let's pop that bag in the boot and send you on your way.' Mrs Jamieson opened the boot of the dark sedan into which Sarah placed her luggage, ‘If you think you leave a part of yourself behind, well, remember you take a part with you. In the end, it will make a whole.'

‘I'll telephone.'

‘And I'll expect it,' Mrs Jamieson replied.

The eastern sun shadowed the country. It took her an hour to walk to the cemetery, during which Rose stopped to pick the small paper daisies managing to cling to life. She drew breathless, her feet dragging on the narrow track that wound onwards through the spring herbage, her long skirt trailing twigs, soil and leaf litter. There was rain last night. A brief cooling shower that washed clogging dust from leaves and petals and it was this fleeting glimmer of freshness that propelled Rose onwards.

The clearing resembled a still pool of water. About its edges, aged trees formed a cooling canopy overhead while grasses swayed in a calming ripple. There was a low paling fence surrounding the wooden marker, the face of it lying in the sun's path until mid-morning, when the sheltering trees protected it for the rest of the day: protected the sleeping place of her dead children.

The fever came in the dark of night and spread its tentacles outwards from the nursery to also claim three of the servants. William and baby Samuel succumbed first. Then her beloved
firstborn, Howard, having survived the worst of it, was bitten by a snake while convalescing in the garden. Snakebite, fever, no matter the malady the resultant end remained death and within two months of Abdullah's leaving only young Luke remained as the heir to Wangallon.

‘Have pity on those that come after,' Rose whispered to a God now firmly entrenched in her soul. Separating the small clutch of flowers, she brushed leaves and twigs from the dirt mounds to place a dried offering at the base of each marker. Breathless, Rose sat heavily at the base of the only large tree within the enclosure. Any remnant of strength that once remained had surely drained out of her during the walk to the cemetery. Food had become unwelcome in her body. What little nourishment she managed to consume was for one purpose; to enable her to walk to this place and lie down with her children. There was nowhere left to go. Tilting her head back against the knobbly bark, she observed a flock of multicoloured lorikeets as they flew overhead. In their beauty, Rose thought of Abdullah.

She awoke to feel the sun burning through her thin blouse, prickling the wasted, sallow skin beneath. Rustling foliage revealed an owl. The bird lifted his head from the soft feathers of his breast, stretched his wings slowly and arched his delicately feathered neck. Large oval eyes, dark with intelligence, blinked sagely at her. Rose remembered the owl from Howard's funeral and she found herself smiling. With a swift flutter, the bird lifted itself clear of the old gum's branches and, having breached the canopy overhead, flew clear of the gravesite and out into the morning. Rose followed the bird's progress until it disappeared from view.

It was better this way. Since Abdullah's leaving nothing was at it should be. Rose woke from ravaged dreams to the scent of his body, to the silken touch of his skin on hers and she knew she could not endure the future. Her heart had been blessed and it
was enough. She thought of the owl leading the way to freedom and she accepted the glorious knowledge of release. It was good and proper, for clearly Hamish Gordon had little need of her in the future. And this was one decision in her life her husband could not control. It took so little to free oneself of the binds of this life, one merely had to cease eating and drinking; one merely needed to decide they wanted to be free.

Minutes later her right hand, encased by the gold bangle, dropped to the dirt by her side. Her slight chest rose and fell, then stilled.

Claire tucked the bed quilt beneath her father's chin and followed the doctor down to the parlour. It was warm tonight. A small fire in the hearth added to the heat, however it kept the flies from seeking refuge in the cooler confines of their home. A green wreath of eucalyptus leaves sat fragrantly on the mantlepiece between two candles. Claire touched the simple decoration. It was Christmas Eve.

‘He is simply tired, Claire.'

The doctor stood opposite her, his black suit and leather bag making him appear rather like a forbidding crow. Claire knew she should offer him sherry or some of the watery wine her father had recently taken to drinking, but the day had already lasted far too long. She wished Mrs Cole would appear with her bustling energy and whisk the doctor out of their home, but she was long asleep, having sat with Claire's father through the previous night.

‘Will he recover?' It was a question that needed to be addressed, although she hated asking. Over the previous weeks
Claire attempted to prepare herself for what Mrs Cole called the inevitability of life, but the fortitude she had depended on in the past was failing her.

‘Now, my dear, there is a stage a person reaches when they've endured enough of this world.' The doctor patted her arm reassuringly. His face, having being drawn downwards with life's disappointments, found a smile almost impossible. ‘At least you are well provided for. That must be a great comfort to your father.'

Claire desperately wanted to hear more than this. She wanted to know that her father would be down sitting in his favourite chair within days. How she longed to sit beside him and share her lessons, to play one of the musical pieces that many hours of practice had finally rewarded her with.

‘Your father would wish you to be strong, my dear.'

‘Of course,' Claire answered soberly. Already the safe and familiar appeared to be sliding into obscurity.

‘It is the finite quality of our lives that makes life itself so precious. Remember that, my dear. Now, what plans have been made for your future?'

‘My future?' Claire gave a small frown. She did not want to discuss her future with anyone. For one thing it was hers, not some commodity that could be secured by brown paper and string. However, she supposed her kindly doctor had already reported back to Wilkinson & Cross, making her father's fading health common knowledge. Taking a candle from the mantlepiece, Claire lit the doctor's passage to the front door. ‘I am tired, Doctor. I do thank you for coming.'

He patted her arm. ‘You know where I am should you need me.'

Claire bade the doctor goodnight and closed the front door, turning the key securely in the lock. The question of her future suddenly seemed to have taken on a matter of urgency, for Mrs Cole had quizzed her on the exact same subject. Claire naively
assumed that she would go on living in this house when the time came for her father to leave this world. Here, surrounded by the familiar, she hoped at least that her studies and music lessons would help ease the loss of her father. Yet having attempted to explain to Mrs Cole of her expectation of continuing on in the present manner, her housekeeper had proceeded to kindly but firmly remind her that her current life existed because of the good grace of another. It was with shocking clarity that Claire realised that at this point in her life anything might happen to her. Her benefactor might lose interest, the money could cease and her marvellous chance at an education would disappear. What would happen to her she had asked of Mrs Cole, if her worst fears were realised? Mrs Cole, having neatly avoided her concerns, suggested what she considered to be Claire's best and only option – an arranged marriage.

Settled in her father's chair before the fireplace, Claire pulled a folded letter from her pocket and with a wary glance in the direction of Mrs Cole's sleeping quarters, opened it. She had carried the letter on her person for the last few months. Guilt following its theft led to the initial concealment, then a plan of sorts began to formulate itself in her mind.

It had been early morning in September when Claire noticed Mrs Cole in the laneway talking to the stranger. Having thrown open her bedroom window in anticipation of the arrival of the pianoforte, her recognition of the man had been instantaneous. He was the same turbaned gentleman she passed driving the dray down their quiet street the morning she had returned with the duck. Such a liaison was intriguing in itself, more so when Claire enquired as to who the man was. Mrs Cole had denied knowing him. The letter had appeared that same afternoon. Blown about by the gusty wind Claire accidently trod on it in the vegetable patch. After the morning's events it had taken little decision as to whether she should open it.

The letter, written to Mrs Cole's sister, talked of the usual minute details of running a household. The buying of foodstuffs featured prominently, as did the price of produce and the quality. What was most intriguing however, was the paragraph referring to Mrs Cole's gratefulness, for it seemed her sister had found her the housekeeping position with the Whittakers. This, Claire decided, was the pearl of knowledge required to begin tracking down her benefactor. Yet Mrs Cudlow's address, some remote property many miles from Sydney, provided no further clues. Certainly Claire could not simply write and announce herself requesting further information. There had to be more, but there wasn't, at least not until today. Claire flicked through the newspaper purchased by Mrs Cole earlier until she came to the page that had captured her attention just prior to the doctor's arrival.

Claire ran her finger down the column as the reporter detailed the incident.

Claire checked the property name on Mrs Cole's letter. It was exactly the same. Wangallon.

With a flutter of excitement she tore the article from the paper and folded it along with the letter. This Mr Gordon had to be her benefactor. It had to be him. Mrs Cole and Mrs
Cudlow's relationship, a wealthy Scottish gentleman, these were facts surely too great to be coincidences.

Tomorrow, after she had seen to her father's comfort, Claire decided to pay Wilkinson & Cross a visit. She could not sit and wait for an uncertain future. True, she may well be presuming the worst, but in the future she would most certainly be alone and it was vital that she knew what awaited her.