The Thorn Birds (36 page)

“Is the new man married?” asked Fee, drawing neat lines with a ruler and a red-inked pen.

“Dunno, didn’t ask. Know tomorrow when he comes.”

“How is he getting here?”

“Jimmy’s driving him out; got to see about those old wethers in Tankstand.”

“Well, let’s hope he stays awhile. If he’s not married he’ll be off again in a few weeks, I suppose. Wretched people, stockmen,” said Fee.

Jims and Patsy were boarding at Riverview, vowing they wouldn’t stay at school a minute longer than the fourteen years of age which was legal. They burned for the day when they would be out in the paddocks with Bob, Jack and Hughie, when Drogheda could run on family again and the outsiders would be welcome to come and go as frequently as they pleased. Sharing the family passion for reading didn’t endear Riverview to them at all; a book could be carried in a saddlebag or a jacket pocket and read with far more pleasure in the noonday shade of a wilga than in a Jesuit classroom. It had been a hard transition for them, boarding school. The big-windowed classrooms, the spacious green playing fields, the wealth of gardens and facilities meant nothing to them, nor did Sydney with its museums, concert halls and art galleries. They chummed up with the sons of other graziers and spent their leisure hours longing for home, or boasting about the size and splendor of Drogheda to awed but believing ears; anyone west of Burren Junction had heard of mighty Drogheda.

Several weeks passed before Meggie saw the new stockman. His name had been duly entered in the books, Luke O’Neill, and he was already talked about in the big house far more than stockmen usually were. For one thing, he had refused to bunk in the jackaroos’ barracks but had taken up residence in the last empty house upon the creek. For another, he had introduced himself to Mrs. Smith, and was in that lady’s good books, though she didn’t usually care for stockmen. Meggie was quite curious about him long before she met him.

Since she kept the chestnut mare and the black gelding in the stables rather than the stockyards and was mostly obliged to start out later of a morning than the men, she would often go long periods of time without running into any of the hired people. But she finally met Luke O’Neill late one afternoon as the summer sun was flaring redly over the trees and the long shadows crept toward the gentle oblivion of night. She was coming back from Borehead to the ford across the creek, he was coming in from southeast and farther out, also on a course for the ford.

The sun was in his eyes, so she saw him before he saw her, and he was riding a big mean bay with a black mane and tail and black points; she knew the animal well because it was her job to rotate the work horses, and she had wondered why this particular beast was not so much in evidence these days. None of the men cared for it, never rode it if they could help. Apparently the new stockman didn’t mind it at all, which certainly indicated he could ride, for it was a notorious early-morning bucker and had a habit of snapping at its rider’s head the moment he dismounted.

It was hard to tell a man’s height when he was on horseback, for Australian stockmen used small English saddles minus the high cantle and horn of the American saddle, and rode with their knees bent, sitting very upright. The new man seemed tall, but sometimes height was all in the trunk, the legs disproportionately short, so Meggie reserved judgment. However, unlike most stockmen he preferred a white shirt and white moleskins to grey flannel and grey twill; somewhat of a dandy, she decided, amused. Good luck to him, if he didn’t mind the bother of so much washing and ironing.

“G’day, Missus!” he called as they converged, doffing his battered old grey felt hat and replacing it rakishly on the back of his head.

Laughing blue eyes looked at Meggie in undisguised admiration as she drew alongside.

“Well, you’re certainly not the Missus, so you’ve got to be the daughter,” he said. “I’m Luke O’Neill.”

Meggie muttered something but wouldn’t look at him again, so confused and angry she couldn’t think of any appropriately light conversation. Oh, it wasn’t fair! How dare someone else have eyes and face like Father Ralph! Not the way he looked at her: the mirth was something of his own and he had no love burning for her there; from the first moment of seeing Father Ralph kneeling in the dust of the Gilly station yard Meggie had seen love in his eyes. To look into
his
eyes and not see
him
! It was a cruel joke, a punishment.

Unaware of the thoughts his companion harbored, Luke O’Neill kept his wicked bay beside Meggie’s demure mare as they splashed through the creek, still running strong from so much rain. She was a beauty, all right! That hair! What was simply carrots on the male Clearys was something else again on this little sprig. If only she would look up, give him a better chance to see that face! Just then she did, with such a look on it that his brows came together, puzzled; not as if she hated him, exactly, but as if she was trying to see something and couldn’t, or had seen something and wished she hadn’t. Or whatever. It seemed to upset her, anyway. Luke was not used to being weighed in a feminine balance and found wanting. Caught naturally in a delicious trap of sunset-gold hair and soft eyes, his interest only fed on her displeasure and disappointment. Still she was watching him, pink mouth fallen slightly open, a silky dew of sweat on her upper lip and forehead because it was so hot, her reddish-gold brows arched in seeking wonderment.

He grinned to reveal Father Ralph’s big white teeth; yet it was not Father Ralph’s smile. “Do you know you look exactly like a baby, all oh! and ah!?”

She looked away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. You reminded me of someone, that’s all.”

“Stare all you like. It’s better than looking at the top of your head, pretty though that might be. Who do I remind you of?”

“No one important. It’s just strange, seeing someone familiar and yet terribly unfamiliar.”

“What’s your name, little Miss Cleary?”

“Meggie.”

“Meggie…It hasn’t got enough dignity, it doesn’t suit you a bit. I’d rather you were called something like Belinda or Madeline, but if Meggie’s the best you’ve got to offer, I’ll go for it. What’s the Meggie stand for—Margaret?”

“No, Meghann.”

“Ah, now that’s more like! I’ll call you Meghann.”

“No, you won’t!” she snapped. “I detest it!”

But he only laughed. “You’ve had too much of your own way, little Miss Meghann. If I want to call you Eustacia Sophronia Augusta, I will, you know.”

They had reached the stockyards; he slipped off his bay, aiming a punch at its snapping head which rocked it into submission, and stood, obviously waiting for her to offer him her hands so he could help her down. But she touched the chestnut mare with her heels and walked on up the track.

“Don’t you put the dainty lady with the common old stockmen?” he called after her.

“Certainly not!” she answered without turning.

Oh, it wasn’t fair! Even on his own two feet he was like Father Ralph; as tall, as broad in the shoulders and narrow in the hips, and with something of the same grace, though differently employed. Father Ralph moved like a dancer, Luke O’Neill like an athlete. His hair was as thick and black and curling, his eyes as blue, his nose as fine and straight, his mouth as well cut. And yet he was no more like Father Ralph than—than—than a ghost gum, so tall and pale and splendid, was like a blue gum, also tall and pale and splendid.

After that chance meeting Meggie kept her ears open for opinions and gossip about Luke O’Neill. Bob and the boys were pleased with his work and seemed to get along well with him; apparently he hadn’t a lazy bone in his body, according to Bob. Even Fee brought his name up in conversation one evening by remarking that he was a very handsome man.

“Does he remind you of anyone?” Meggie asked idly, flat on her stomach on the carpet reading a book.

Fee considered the question for a moment. “Well, I suppose he’s a bit like Father de Bricassart. The same build, the same coloring. But it isn’t a striking likeness; they’re too different as men.

“Meggie, I wish you’d sit in a chair like a lady to read! Just because you’re in jodhpurs you don’t have to forget modesty entirely.”

“Pooh!” said Meggie. “As if anyone notices!”

And so it went. There was a likeness, but the men behind the faces were so unalike only Meggie was plagued by it, for she was in love with one of them and resented finding the other attractive. In the kitchen she found he was a prime favorite, and also discovered how he could afford the luxury of wearing white shirts and white breeches into the paddocks; Mrs. Smith washed and ironed them for him, succumbing to his ready, beguiling charm.

“Och, what a fine Irishman he is and all!” Minnie sighed ecstatically.

“He’s an Australian,” said Meggie provocatively.

“Born here, maybe, Miss Meggie darlin’, but wit’ a name like O’Neill now, he’s as Irish as Paddy’s pigs, not meanin’ any disrespect to yer sainted father, Miss Meggie, may he rest in peace and sing wit’ the angels. Mr. Luke not Irish, and him wit’ that black hair, thim blue eyes? In the old days the O’Neills was the kings of Ireland.”

“I thought the O’Connors were,” said Meggie slyly.

Minnie’s round little eyes twinkled. “Ah, well now, Miss Meggie, ’twas a big country and all.”

“Go on! It’s about the size of Drogheda! And anyway, O’Neill is an Orange name; you can’t fool me.”

“It is that. But it’s a great Irish name and it existed before there were Orangemen ever thought of. It is a name from Ulster parts, so it’s logical there’d have to be a few of thim Orange, isn’t it now? But there was the O’Neill of Clandeboy and the O’Neill Mor back when, Miss Meggie darlin’.”

Meggie gave up the battle; Minnie had long since lost any militant Fenian tendencies she might once have possessed, and could pronounce the word “Orange” without having a stroke.

About a week later she ran into Luke O’Neill again, down by the creek. She suspected he had lain in wait for her, but she didn’t know what to do about it if he had.

“Good afternoon, Meghann.”

“Good afternoon,” said she, looking straight between the chestnut mare’s ears.

“There’s a woolshed ball at Braich y Pwll next Saturday night. Will you come with me?”

“Thank you for asking me, but I can’t dance. There wouldn’t be any point.”

“I’ll teach you how to dance in two flicks of a dead lamb’s tail, so that’s no obstacle. Since I’ll taking the squatter’s sister, do you think Bob might let me borrow the old Rolls, if not the new one?”

“I said I wouldn’t go!” she said, teeth clenched.

“
You
said you couldn’t dance,
I
said I’d teach you. You never said you wouldn’t go with me if you could dance, so I assumed it was the dancing you objected to, not me. Are you going to back out?”

Exasperated, she glared at him fiercely, but he only laughed at her.

“You’re spoiled rotten, young Meghann; it’s time you didn’t get all your own way.”

“I’m not spoiled!”

“Go on, tell me another! The only girl, all those brothers to run round after you, all this land and money, a posh house, servants? I know the Catholic Church owns it, but the Clearys aren’t short of a penny either.”

That
was the big difference between them! she thought triumphantly; it had been eluding her since she met him. Father Ralph would never have fallen for outward trappings, but this man lacked his sensitivity; he had no inbuilt antennae to tell him what lay beneath the surface. He rode through life without an idea in his head about its complexity or its pain.

Flabbergasted, Bob handed over the keys to the new Rolls without a murmur; he had stared at Luke for a moment without speaking, then grinned.

“I never thought of Meggie going to a dance, but take her, Luke, and welcome! I daresay she’d like it, the poor little beggar. She never gets out much. We ought to think of taking her, but somehow we never do.”

“Why don’t you and Jack and Hughie come, too?” Luke asked, apparently not averse to company.

Bob shook his head, horrified. “No, thanks. We’re not too keen on dances.”

Meggie wore her ashes-of-roses dress, not having anything else to wear; it hadn’t occurred to her to use some of the stockpiling pounds Father Ralph put in the bank in her name to have dresses made for parties and balls. Until now she had managed to refuse invitations, for men like Enoch Davies and Alastair MacQueen were easy to discourage with a firm no. They didn’t have Luke O’Neill’s gall.

But as she stared at herself in the mirror she thought she just might go into Gilly next week when Mum made her usual trip, visit old Gert and have her make up a few new frocks.

For she hated wearing this dress; if she had owned one other even remotely suitable, it would have been off in a second. Other times, a different black-haired man; it was so tied up with love and dreams, tears and loneliness, that to wear it for such a one as Luke O’Neill seemed a desecration. She had grown used to hiding what she felt, to appearing always calm and outwardly happy. Self-control was growing around her thicker than bark on a tree, and sometimes in the night she would think of her mother, and shiver.

Would she end up like Mum, cut off from all feeling? Was this how it began for Mum back in the days when there was Frank’s father? And what on earth would Mum do, what would she say if she knew Meggie had learned the truth about Frank? Oh, that scene in the presbytery! It seemed like yesterday, Daddy and Frank facing each other, and Ralph holding her so hard he hurt. Shouting those awful things. Everything had fallen into place. Meggie thought she must always have known, once she did. She had grown up enough to realize there was more to getting babies than she used to think; some sort of physical contact absolutely forbidden between any but a married couple. What disgrace and humiliation poor Mum must have gone through over Frank. No wonder she was the way she was. If it happened to her, Meggie thought, she would want to die. In books only the lowest, cheapest girls had babies outside of marriage; yet Mum wasn’t cheap, could never have been cheap. With all her heart Meggie wished Mum could talk to her about it, or that she herself had the courage to bring up the subject. Perhaps in some small way she might have been able to help. But Mum wasn’t the sort of person one could approach, nor would Mum do the approaching. Meggie sighed at herself in the mirror, and hoped nothing like that ever happened to her.