The Great Plains (31 page)

‘I put the child in the store room, it's cool in there,' he added.

‘Get her cleaned up,' the sheriff nodded to Abelena, ‘and then lock her in for the night. I'll be back in the morning.' Sheriff Cadell beckoned to Mark. ‘Would you like to come and get some food?' He picked the boy up and restrained him as Mark kicked out and screamed. ‘C'mon, quiet down, you little terror.' The stationmaster opened the front door.

‘What are you doing? Leave him alone!' Abelena yelled, trying to pull Mark free. The boy screamed.

‘I'm sorry, Abelena, but my orders were to arrest your brother and bring you both back to Oklahoma City. This boy and the one with the broken leg are off to an orphanage.'

‘But they're family,' she pleaded. ‘They're Wades too.'

The sheriff shook his head at the red-headed child as Mark struggled to free himself. ‘I can barely see a resemblance to the Wades in you, girl, but you're the one Edmund wants.'

‘Please, mister, please, they're my family,' Abelena begged.

The stationmaster pinned Abelena's arms as the sheriff opened the door. ‘Lock this door when I'm gone.' He addressed Abelena: ‘In a few days you'll have a new family, a respectable family, not a mix of half-breeds. Be grateful for that and stop causing trouble.'

After the sheriff had left, the stationmaster released her and, producing a key, locked the door. Abelena felt her body begin to sway. She reached for the ticketing bench to steady herself as a cold lump welled up inside her chest. Inch by inch she dragged her feet across the floor, her fingers gripping the counter until she was touching Jerome's belongings. She knew what the izze-kloth was the moment she held it in the palm of her hands. She knew Jerome should have buried it with Uncle George, that it was bad luck to keep hold of any of his personal possessions. Abelena also knew it had special powers, powers conferred on it by a medicine man instructed in the art of war. Very slowly she tied the cut leather strands together and hung it around her neck.

June, 1935 – Riverview Village, Southern Queensland

The dray crossed the narrow bridge above the river. On its banks below, two children in short pants stood ankle-deep in the brown water, fishing lines strung out hopefully. On either side of the potted road the trees grew thickly. Occasionally glimpses of pasture flashed through gaps in the woody plants and both Marcus and Will caught sight of hundreds of sheep, heads down, grazing into the wind. On the seat between them sat the eggs and the butter, in the rear two parcels wrapped in bloodied calico.

‘Do you think we're doing the right thing, you know, with the meat?'

Marcus firmed his jaw. At the next bend they drew parallel with the railroad tracks. The squat station office advertised the name of the siding
Riverview
in thick black lettering. A water tower and stockyards were close by, as well as a platform for loading and off-loading goods. ‘I'll decide what's right and wrong, son.'

The village consisted of a single street that began with the siding. It had sprung up after the railroad came through in 1919, with the line finally linking the large pastoral area to the rest of the Darling Downs. Two years later a post office followed, then the general store with the rail siding. It was declared a town in 1924. It took another ten years for the police station to be built. By that stage there were a handful of buildings at the southern end of the wide dirt street and an Anglican church constructed of timber. The only thing the place lacked was a hotel, and Marcus figured it wouldn't be long before a canny operator saw the potential of the district and had one built.

‘But it's wrong,' Will persevered. ‘Stealing them because we're hungry is one thing, selling them is worse.'

‘There's no difference between one or the other, Will,' Marcus argued. ‘We haven't been starving.' He flicked the reins. ‘We've been living off the bush and what we could produce, but now we've got the sheep we might as well make the best of the situation. Besides, the last time we went to town we didn't even have enough money left over for a jar of pickles. A lousy jar of pickles. Well, with this second sheep I can buy your mother a whole carton of pickles and flour and maybe even some condensed milk.'

Margery and Dot maintained a steady pace as they walked down the main street. The village was non-descript yet it serviced a vast area. The train transported all kinds of produce as the majority of the region was rich and quite diversified. Between the farmlands that spread across the landscape, there were long stretches of crisscrossing roads, bushy ridges, winding creeks and herds of cattle. Although dairying and cropping were popular, there were also farms with pigs, and some of the original settlers in the area ran vast numbers of sheep.

‘Do you think that land would be expensive to buy?' Will pointed to where cattle grazed.

Marcus's own dreams when it came to improvements on the dairy had been relegated to fairytale status. ‘Lad, we've got enough problems trying to keep The Plains going. If you do manage to find work, the money you earn will have to go back into the farm, as agreed, not in a jam tin under your bed while you spend thirty years trying to save up enough money to buy another piece of dirt.'

‘But I should be able to keep some of it, Dad.'

Marcus began discussing the avenues open to Will in terms of employment, but with only a few disinterested responses from his son, he eventually stopped trying to entice conversation and simply told the boy what he thought. ‘The squatters on the big stations are the ones to approach. They've got vast acreages and thousands of sheep to look after and they need men. I'm thinking that they would be pretty partial to employing someone from the district.'

By the time the dray pulled up at the back of the general store, Will had stopped looking so downcast and had begun to name each of the properties he thought might be worthwhile approaching.

‘Come on, lad.' They offloaded the milk tin from the dray and carried it into the refrigerated area at the rear of the building. Marcus returned to the wagon and collected the meat.

‘You sure you want to take that in, Dad?' Will looked hesitant. ‘Mr Stevens will know that it isn't ours.'

‘And who is to say that we didn't find an orphaned lamb and hand rear it?'

Will followed his father indoors with the week's fresh butter and eggs. The shop was reasonably wide with space enough for three tables where spoilt kids could slurp down milkshakes year round and suck on watermelon slices in the summer.

‘Good morning, Marcus, Will. Well then, what have we got today?' Mr Stevens gave his usual ruddy-faced smile and, putting yesterday's newspaper to one side, began scrubbing the wooden counter. On the shelving behind him, rows of canned goods lined the wall from floor to ceiling while the counter held large screw-top jars filled with multi-coloured boiled sweets. Will sat the eggs and butter on the bench as the storekeeper rolled up the blinds covering the glass windows on the shop-front. There were wooden crates with a selection of vegetables; potatoes, cabbage and carrots. Will spread a hand on the glass cabinet adjoining the counter and stared at the portions of chicken and pork, sliced corned meat and the large, pale wedges of cheese.

‘Butter,' Mr Stevens said cheerfully, returning to the counter. He opened each cheesecloth-wrapped pad and ran his finger across the butter before tasting it. ‘Perfect as always. And the eggs?' He went through the basket methodically, carefully picking away the straw to ensure none were broken, and placing them in a box.

‘The milk's out back, just where you like it, Mr Stevens.' Marcus laid the leg of mutton and side of chops on the bench and unwrapped the bloody calico. ‘There's more outside. A whole sheep in all.'

Mr Stevens prodded the meat and then sniffed it appreciatively. ‘I can't pay you butcher's rates, not knowing where it's come from and no money, not today. If I'm interested and I haven't decided yet, I'd pay you in kind.'

Marcus knew his arrival with the meat would mean negotiating. He figured a man didn't end up running a successful business without cutting corners and that undoubtedly started with his suppliers. ‘I'd want some cash for my trouble,' Marcus replied evenly.

Mr Stevens shook his head and looked at the meat doubtfully. ‘I really don't think I'd sell it.' He pushed the two parcels of meat to one side.

‘Really? It's prime mutton.' Marcus thought of Flossy.

The shopkeeper poked at the meat half-heartedly. ‘No, not interested.'

‘I'd take supplies,' Marcus offered with resignation. He didn't want to return home empty-handed, ‘Instead of cash. A tin of nails, some condensed milk, flour, baking soda, Epsom salts, castor oil, a half dozen rashers of bacon.'

Mr Stevens held his hand up. ‘Times are tough and I haven't agreed to the buying of it yet.'

Marcus was tempted to tell the shopkeeper to stick the meat up his fat backside. ‘You said it yourself, Mr Stevens. You won't pay me a butcher's rate but I'm betting that you'll be selling at that. This is a good deal.'

‘Well, I never knew you were quite so canny.' Mr Stevens wrapped the meat back up in the calico. ‘Tell Mrs Todd that her produce is excellent as always and that I'll return the cheesecloth wrapping at the next delivery.' He began wiping down the counter.

Will turned to his father. Marcus didn't move.

Outside, a woman was crossing the street and heading in the direction of the store.

Finally the shopkeeper looked up. ‘If you were able to procure good quality meat, such as this amount, on a fortnightly basis, I believe we could come to an arrangement that would be mutually beneficial.' The man began moving about, selecting the supplies that Marcus had mentioned and sitting them on a bench. Tallying the cost of the items, he added a bottle of brandy. ‘Well then, a fair exchange I think. You can put the rest of it out the back with the milk.'

Marcus looked at the goods on the bench. To steal once or twice was one thing but to enter into a bargain with a man who expected regular deliveries was another. His palms grew sweaty.

‘Perhaps some ribbon for Mrs Todd,' the shopkeeper enticed. He unravelled a length of yellow-gold ribbon from a thick card and placed it in a little white bag.

Marcus knew he was being coerced by a champion but he was drawn by the thought of Flossy's face when she saw the ribbon. He rubbed his chin. Outside, the woman peered at the vegetables.

‘Dad?' Will cautioned.

Marcus would not be bested in front of his boy. ‘And pickles, please.'

Mr Stevens narrowed his eyes but he selected a quart-sized pot. ‘A jar of pickles for Mrs Todd then.'

‘And some tobacco,' Marcus added. It was a month since he'd enjoyed a decent smoke.

The front door opened. The shop bell tinkled.

Mr Stevens hesitated. ‘Very well, but I'll be taking the price of the tobacco and the pickles off the next delivery. I'm a fair man, but I'll not be played.'

Marcus watched as the groceries were deposited into two brown paper bags. ‘You have yourself an arrangement, Mr Stevens.' The two men shook hands on the deal as Will lifted the supplies.

‘Be with you in a moment, Mrs Doolan. Be careful,' the shopkeeper whispered. ‘If you're caught I'll deny knowing that it was stolen.'

Ignoring the older man, Marcus put a hand on his son's shoulder and steered him towards the back door.

‘Have you heard the news, Mr Stevens?' Mrs Doolan enquired breathlessly. ‘Mr Tobias Wade, the son of the owner of Condamine Station, and one of his cousins are sailing from America as we speak. Mrs Joyce Goward, who's married to my cousin Ned, learnt of the visit from the housekeeper up at the big house. Straight from the horse's mouth, so to speak. Such excitement, don't you think? Why it's been years since we had anyone come over from America and that Mr Kirkland, well, he's a solitary type, gruff really. Not at all like that nice Mr Hocking, may he rest in peace. We must organise a reception for them, or perhaps a celebratory church service. They say he is unmarried although I have no idea of his age. Do you, Mr Stevens? Well, it doesn't matter, a moneyed man will quickly find himself a wife.'

Marcus shut the back door behind them.

‘You said before, Dad, that it was wrong to take the sheep. Now you're going to do it regularly?' Will whispered.

Marcus settled the parcels between them on the seat of the dray. ‘When was the last time we could afford such things, Will?'

‘I know, but –'

‘I'm doing my best for all of us, especially for your mother. She's not had it easy out here, you know that, and just imagine her face when she sees that ribbon.'

‘I know, Dad, but it's not right and where will we get the sheep from? And what will we tell Mum?'

‘Leave that to me, on both counts.' Marcus flicked the reins and steered the dray back onto the street.

‘Dad –'

‘Not another word about it, William.'