Wildflower Hill (15 page)

He was aware immediately that there were no lights on. Either they were both asleep or Beattie was trying to save money on their electricity bill. A twinge of guilt: so little money left in this week’s pay packet. Perhaps their electricity had been cut off.

In his drunkenness, he fumbled with the key in the dark. Finally got himself in the door and tried the switch. The uncovered bulb above him lit up.

“Beattie?” he said. He knew he shouldn’t be loud and wake Lucy, but she was so beautiful when she woke up. All warm and sleepy. He went to the main bedroom. The door was open.
He could see by the reflected light from the hallway that the bed was empty. Curious, he went to the kitchen. No sign of her.

Of course. She had probably fallen asleep next to Lucy. He crept to the child’s room and opened the door. It was empty.

“Lucy!” he cried. Hearing the note of fear in his own voice frightened him further. Where was she? Had somebody taken her? Why wasn’t Beattie here to protect her? He stumbled from room to room, leaving all the lights blazing. There was no sign of either of them. He raced into the garden, past the laundry. His shirts were still hung on the line, ghostly shapes in the dark.

“Lucy? Beattie?”

“They’re gone.”

He turned at the voice. The old woman who lived in the next house stood at her back door, clearly roused by all his shouting. He didn’t know her name.

“What do you, mean?” he said.

“She’s left you; she’s taken the child.” Her fingers were clenched hard around the door frame. She was afraid of him.

The anger was so intense that he nearly threw up. He choked it down. His hands felt heavy, his ears rang. “Where did she go?”

“If she’d wanted you to know, she’d have left you a note.” In the dark, the woman’s features looked severe. A bird of prey. But all the same, she shrank slightly from his thundering voice. “I saw her at the bus stop this morning. She told me everything about you.”

“She knows nothing about me,” he muttered, stalking away.

“The Lord is giving you an opportunity,” she called after him, emboldened by his departure. “He’s telling you that you can’t go on drinking and gambling.”

Henry slammed the door behind him, collapsed into a chair at the empty kitchen table. Silence gathered around him. A little moan escaped his lips. He put his head down on the table and listened to the dull thump of his own heart.

B
eattie picked Lucy up, holding her on her hip with one hand, the sodden box still tucked under her arm. She walked. Down the pitted dirt road past the pub, with its red iron roof and large, rough-hewn bricks. Past a grocer, a post office, a brick arched door. Past a baker, a bank, a used-furniture shop, and a row of houses: some wood, some stone, all with sloping tin roofs. She took the first left, as Charlie had told her, and identified Margaret’s house immediately. Pale yellow weatherboards, a paved front path, roses growing in profusion. A moment’s uncertainty: what if Margaret didn’t take them in? Drizzle began again. Then she marched up to the front door under the shelter of the verandah and knocked briskly.

Within moments, a woman answered the door. She was much younger than Beattie had imagined—perhaps only in her late thirties—and she had a pretty face and a soft roundness to her.

“Oh! You’re wringing!” Margaret said, opening the door wide. “And the child. Can I help you?”

“I’ve come up from Hobart. I lived next door to Doris Penny. She said—”

“Come in, come in. Do you have dry clothes? I might have some here to loan you. Shall I run a warm bath for the girl? What happened to you?”

Beattie was speechless. Margaret’s kindness was too much to bear. As she stepped over the threshold, the bottom finally fell out of the box. A tumble of wet clothes cascaded onto the floor. She fought back sobs. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’ve had rather a long day.”

“Then come in and take good comfort.” Margaret bent to help her pick up her things. “Let me help.”

Margaret’s house, like Doris’s, was tidy and full. Soft furnishings, knickknacks, paintings, even a sewing machine. A cross on the wall, pictures of Jesus and Mary, Bible verses cross-stitched onto cushions. As Margaret bustled about, Beattie followed her from room to room, haltingly relating her journey and the storm. Lucy was quiet. Exhaustion had hit her. Margaret took them into her bathroom, ran a warm bath. “I expect you’d like one, too?” she asked Beattie.

“We really should talk about—”

“Our first priority is to get you both clean and dry and fed. We’ll talk when the child sleeps. You’re not leaving this house tonight. I’ve a spare room.”

So Margaret left them, and Beattie gratefully slid into the warm bath with Lucy, letting the heat melt the knots out of her muscles. She pulled Lucy against her, the child’s back pressed against her breasts. Lucy’s spine was bony: had Beattie not noticed before that she was growing thin? A delicious
feeling—of relief, of the satisfaction of having done precisely the right thing—washed over her. She kissed Lucy’s wet hair. “I love you, my girl.”

“When will we see Daddy again?”

“We’ll get settled here first. You must be patient.”

Too tired to cry, Lucy slumped against her. Beattie wondered how long it would take for Lucy to forget her father, or at least to forget how madly she loved him.

Clean, dry, dressed in some spare clothes of Margaret’s that were far too big, and fed on a hot meal of mutton stew, Beattie sat on the couch across from Margaret in a wing-backed chair. Lucy lay on Beattie’s lap, and Beattie stroked her hair away from her soft white forehead while the girl drifted off to sleep. Beattie was exhausted, too, could barely keep her head up. But Margaret hadn’t shown her the spare room yet, and besides, there were important things to sort out.

“So, how is Doris? Does she look well?” Margaret began, picking up an embroidery ring and a needle.

“Yes.” Beattie’s fingers itched to sew, too. She liked the way it calmed her mind. “Do you have another of those?” she asked.

Margaret smiled, kicked toward her a basket full of fabrics and threads. Beattie chose a scrap, some red thread and a needle, and began to stitch. Lucy breathed softly on her lap. “Doris said you might have work for me, that I might be able to earn my board.”

“I always have work. I make clothes and repair clothes. I’m busy. You can certainly earn your board here helping out. But you would need to help with food costs, especially as you have a little one with you. You can apply for the government relief,
though you have to go twenty miles up the road to the next town to do it.”

Her heart sank. “Is there no other work in town?”

“Might be. I’ll give you a little while to settle in.” She smiled. “You needn’t look so worried. You’ll be safe here.”

Beattie dropped her eyes, gazed at Lucy. She found herself crying. “Thank you,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure if Margaret heard. Then she composed herself, looked up again. “The man who helped us, who rescued Lucy, he said he wasn’t welcome in Lewinford. He was leaving.”

Margaret narrowed her eyes. “What was his name?”

“Charlie.”

“Charlie Harris?”

“I didn’t ask his last name.”

“He’s trouble. Those half-bloods have got one foot in our world, one foot in theirs. It confuses them. They all belong together, somewhere, away from the whites.”

“What kind of trouble?” Beattie thought about how gentle he had been with Lucy. She didn’t want to judge Margaret, who had shown her such kindness. But the Charlie she met didn’t deserve such censure.

“He was managing Wildflower Hill, a sheep farm on the other side of town. But all the while he was stealing from his boss. Now, Raph Blanchard may be a rogue himself, but a white man shouldn’t have his things stolen by a black one, and that’s that.”

“I must say,” Beattie ventured, “Charlie seemed very nice to me.”

Margaret sniffed, dismissing the topic. “Even a stopped
clock shows the right time twice a day.” She put aside the embroidery ring and fixed Beattie in her gaze. “This husband of yours, is he likely to come good and ask for you back?”

Beattie decided to be honest. “He’s not my husband. He’s somebody else’s husband.”

Margaret’s mouth turned down sternly, and all the prettiness fled her face. “The child was born out of wedlock?”

“Yes. I was very young and very foolish.”

“Is she baptized?”

Beattie shook her head.

“You’ll need to fix that. There’s a little church here on Maud Street. I teach their Sunday school. She can come along with me.”

Beattie wasn’t sure what to say.

“Good. That’s decided, then,” Margaret continued.

Beattie felt a moment’s consternation. What precisely had been decided? But then she figured that Sunday school and a proper baptism couldn’t hurt. They sat in silence a while longer, then Beattie finally said, “I’m so sorry, Margaret, but I can barely keep my eyes open.”

Margaret smiled, and her prettiness returned. “You poor thing, you must be exhausted. Leave the child here a few moments, and I’ll show you the spare room.”

They walked down the narrow hallway to the laundry, where a set of stairs led up to an attic room. It smelled dusty and faintly damp. Margaret switched on the light. The roof was low and peaked, spiderwebs gathered in the corners. The floor was covered in old newspapers. There was a dresser and a single bed in the middle of the room with a thin mattress.

“It’s not much,” Margaret said, “but it’s a roof over your head.”

Beattie forced a smile. “I’ll take it gratefully.”

“I’ll get you some linen.”

Beattie cheered herself by thinking of cleaning up the cobwebs and saving for a rug for the floor. Margaret’s linen was soft and pretty, and she was happy to lay Lucy down among it, curl up next to her, and finally sleep.

For the first few weeks, they kept busy and they ate well. Margaret taught Beattie to use the sewing machine, and Beattie took over all of the mending. There were two baskets of it, and more arrived every day. Nobody had money for new clothes, and old clothes needed to be made to last longer. After spending the mornings sewing, Beattie had the afternoons free for Lucy. They gathered up the old newspapers and scrubbed the floor of their room, cleared out the cobwebs, and Lucy even convinced Margaret to let them have one little painting—a scene of a boat on a river that Lucy had become fixated on—to hang on the wall. Margaret took Lucy to Sunday school once a week, and Beattie enjoyed the morning without her, using the sewing machine to mend some of their own clothes. She longed for a length of fabric to make herself a new dress but hadn’t a penny. Margaret urged her kindly to take the bus up to the next town and sign on for government benefits, but Beattie resisted. She was determined to work for her money; she was done with relying on others. So she asked
at every shop in the town, told everybody that she was looking for work, hoping something might come up soon.

At the beginning of the fourth week, something did.

Beattie sat on the couch, darning socks. Lucy played with peg dolls at her feet. It was the first day so far that she hadn’t moaned about wanting to see Daddy. Margaret had helped—uninvited—by responding to Lucy’s questions about her father with a stern “When God has helped your father to recover, God will help him find you, too.” Lucy was both thrilled and terrified by the idea of God; Beattie was simply terrified by the idea of Henry finding them.

Margaret was pedaling her sewing machine and didn’t hear the knock at the door. Beattie did and rose to answer it.

A middle-aged woman with an enormous bosom stood there. She wore eyeglasses, and her hair was piled high and tight on her head. “I’m looking for Beattie Blaxland.”

“That’s me,” Beattie said, her heart thudding in her throat. What had happened? Had Henry sent her?

“I’m Alice. I’m the housekeeper at Wildflower Hill. We’ve lost a maid this morning, and I’d heard you were looking for work.”

“I am!” Beattie said, reminding herself not to be so excited. The job wasn’t hers yet. “Would you like to come in?”

Alice screwed up her nose. “I don’t think so. When can you start?”

“Tomorrow afternoon? I work for Margaret in the morning.”

“Can you make it ten? I’ll need you to help with the lunch.”

Beattie hesitated but decided she could simply get up
earlier to work for Margaret. “Yes, of course. I’ll call at ten.”

“No, no. I’ll send the car. It’s a long walk, and you’ll be exhausted before you begin.” Alice turned and marched briskly back down the stairs into a waiting car.

Beattie went back inside and explained the situation to Margaret, who wore a wary expression the whole time.

“I’m not much given to gossip,” Margaret said, “but I do feel I have to warn you about Wildflower Hill.”

“Warn me?”

“It’s a place full of sinners.”

Beattie tried not to sigh in exasperation. Margaret’s constant talk about God and sin wore on her nerves. She wasn’t sure if she believed in God: her father’s atheism had made her skeptical. But if God were real, Beattie knew he’d be kinder than the God Margaret believed in.

“So Alice is a sinner?” Beattie asked, hoping she didn’t sound impatient.

“Those who turn a blind eye to what’s going on are sinners, for certain. You’d do well to remember that.” Margaret smiled, touched Beattie’s hand. “I don’t mean to frighten you, love, but Raphael Blanchard who owns Wildflower Hill is bad news, and you’d do well to stay clear of him when you can.”

“Thank you for your advice,” Beattie said, reminding herself to be grateful. “Could I leave Lucy here with you while I go up to work?”

“Of course. We have a good time together, don’t we, Lucy?”

Lucy responded by hopping up and giving Margaret a hug. Beattie was both relieved and discomfited. But it wasn’t for her to complain. She had a home, food to eat, someone to
help her care for her child, and now she had a job. With a little money of her own, she could buy a rug for the floor of their attic room or new shoes for Lucy. She didn’t believe for a moment that Wildflower Hill was full of sinners; she had more important things to be afraid of.