Cobram
Saturday 17 September
McFadyen’s store stocked all manner of things. It wasn’t the only store in town, but here he was. Fitz gazed at the crammed merchandise. Women’s things were in abundance, hanging on rods dangling from the ceiling, or packed high into pigeon-hole shelves on the wall. For men, shirts, pants, belts and boots just as Robbo had told him, adorned a long bench. Grocery items to suit any budget and taste surrounded him on timber benches and hutches. Fresh vegetables were in boxes stacked side by side on tables down the middle of the store. On the far wall at the back were wine and spirits. Sweet treats and cough mixture lined the counter itself—everything a town like this could want and need.
And there was his target, a store assistant. Two in fact; a woman was behind the counter serving a lady customer, and the man, wearing a dark apron, was brushing off sawdust as he approached. He was clean-shaven, and his short, dark and neatly clipped oiled hair was parted down the middle.
His was a cheery welcome. ‘Morning, sir. How do? What can I help you with?’
Fitz greeted him with a nod. He’d spied a stack of newspapers, but further than that he hadn’t really given it much thought. Food, always a good idea. ‘I’m after a few tins of bully beef, some potatoes, too. A newspaper.’
‘Right over here,’ the man said, his opened arm directing Fitz to the opposite end of the store where the ladies stood. ‘New to town?’ he asked, ducking behind the counter for a paper bag and heading for the box of potatoes.
Fitz nodded. ‘Seems a good place here, but I’m not sure if I’ll stay or head upriver.’
‘It’s a good place all right,’ the man confirmed. ‘The weather’s good, the river’s good, the people.’
‘What about land here?’ Fitz asked as he sauntered down the aisle, eyeing cabbages and cauliflower, carrots and peas. He wandered back, swiping up a cherry from a full basket. ‘I’m looking for something to buy.’
‘Not sure I’ll able to help there. I’m a townie, Mister …?’
‘Morgan.’
‘Well, Mr Morgan, I don’t know much about the land side of things. Only place I’ve heard of might be available is a plot not far from here. That’s if you like living close to the river, mind.’ The man was piling potatoes into the paper bag. ‘She can get a bit wild when she rises, if you know what I mean.’
‘I do.’
‘Course, only once we get a good rain, that is, and break the drought. Then look out.’ He shook his head as if remembering the wild days, shovelling spuds into the bag.
Fitz held up his hand to stop him at eight potatoes. ‘It looks like good land around here for crops or an orchard, maybe.’ He noticed the woman behind the counter glance at him.
‘Norman,’ she called over as her customer left. ‘If you’re talking about the Bayley’s place, we don’t know what’ll happen to it now.’
‘Yairs,’ Norman said, still shaking his head. ‘Terrible thing. Mr Bayley’s been gone a long while, left his wife out there.’ He leaned towards Fitz. ‘Now she’s been found dead over her boy’s grave just real recent.’
News flies, small towns. ‘Terrible,’ Fitz murmured. He wanted them to rattle on, not shut down. ‘Terrible,’ he repeated into the silence, and drew a breath at the memory of Meryl Bayley. ‘So where has Mr Bayley gone?’
Norman moved from the vegetables to back behind the counter. He reached overhead for tins of beef on the shelf at the back. ‘Well,’ he started, choosing the right words. ‘No one knows.’
‘Sod,’ the woman said under her breath and begun unfolding and folding towels from an already neat stack. ‘He just left her out there on her own.’
‘Now, Maud, we don’t know what happened.’ Norman leaned over the counter towards Fitz. ‘Hard yakka up this way, truth be known, hard all over the place—if you know what I mean,’ he said and dropped his voice, glancing at Maud. ‘Maybe there were other problems, y’know?’
‘Is that the place between parcels of land belonging to someone else?’
‘That’s the one. And that’s the other story,’ Norman said, almost a whisper. ‘Some reckon Bayley was run off the place, but they couldn’t budge the missus away from her boy’s grave.’
Jesus, that’s the story, right there.
‘They say, one day she comes into town long after Bayley had gone, and she had a black eye, and bruises here,’ Norman said, and tapped his neck either side with both hands.
Shit.
‘Poor woman,’ Fitz murmured, remembering the day they’d found her.
‘Yair, but she said nothin’, she didn’t go to Constable Stillard, did she, Maudie?’
The woman shook her head, her mouth downturned.
‘Stillard is the usual man here,’ Norman explained and went on stacking tins of beef. There were already six in the bag, so Fitz held up his hand again. ‘He’s off on leave, prob’ly scouting for a new post,’ he said, reaching across in a stretch to grab a newspaper. ‘They say he’ll be leavin’ here soon. Town will be less for it.’
No one mentioned the stand-in policeman. So far, Fitz had learned only one new thing, and that was bad enough to know.
‘So, the newspaper office,’ he began as Norman slid the paper into the bag. ‘There’s no one there.’
‘They come in to work late today. Stay until late, too. But all the up-to-date news in the district is in here.’ He tapped the paper. ‘After something in particular?’
‘Just interested. The newspaper usually has all sorts of information a man might need.’
‘Maybe, but not everything.’ Norman’s glance darted to Maud, who was busy folding whatever she got her hands on, her face set in disapproval. ‘There’s a man, a Mr Haines,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t get on his wrong side. He wants that land you mentioned. Some say he had the boys beat up Bayley’s missus.’ Norman checked Maud again. ‘Maybe worse.’
Maud cleared her throat just before the door opened. ‘Morning, Mr Haines.’
Norman smiled broadly at Fitz. ‘There you go, Mr Morgan. I’ll tally up for you.’ He scooted down the length of the counter for a pad and pencil, and returned.
‘Mr Morgan,’ Haines greeted effusively, his large moustache stretched over a smile. ‘Thought I recognised your horse out there. We meet again.’
‘Ah, yes, but I’m on my way. The good folk here have just helped me with my few purchases.’
Haines eyed the large bag in front of Fitz. ‘Heading out of town then?’
Not subtle at all. ‘No,’ Fitz answered and handed Norman payment. Taking the bag in one arm, he nodded at Haines. ‘I’ll be around for a while.’
As he headed out the door, he heard Haines ask something of Norman who replied, ‘Well, for a few shillings, he got a newspaper, eight potatoes and six tins of bully beef, with change. Pretty good value, wouldn’t you say, Mr Haines?’
Good on you, Norman.
He loaded the goods into Patto’s saddlebags. Now to do some rattling of his own.
Fitz hadn’t bothered to look for his brother in town; had ridden to John’s house, packed away his clothes that had stiffened on the line from the dry heat, and in the last light of day, had taken up a possie on the riverbank. Not the same place as the night before, just to be on the safe side.
It was quiet. His small fire attracted bugs, drawn into the irresistible flames only to sizzle to their end. He’d thrown a couple of taties in the coals and, once cooked, he’d knocked off the blackened skins, and mashed the hot and nutty flavoured flesh into a handful of bully beef.
This is the life. A good rum would have worked, but maybe he’d already had his quota for now.
He let the flames die, let the coals simmer down to almost nothing. It was a warm enough night; he didn’t need a raging fire. There was no wind, but he was wary of letting sparks freshen and fly, so just before he was ready to roll onto his swag, he took the billy down to the river, filled it and poured it over the coals. Smoke billowed as the fire extinguished.
Patto was tied nearby, and his nosebag had done its job. The saddle and saddlebags were on the ground by him. Fitz had his rifle by his side. Satisfied, he hunkered down on his swag. Maybe The Bulletin would take the stories, or maybe the Melbourne paper, The Age. Either of his articles would suit them, the Bendigo story or the emerging one here. Maybe the Cobram Courier would telegraph copy to other mastheads.
Drifting off in a silence, it was a while before he realised he could hear familiar sounds. The pad of horse’s hooves nearby, stepping carefully, quietly. Stealthy in the still night. Leaf litter crackled.
He rolled over, grabbed the rifle, and scrambled for his horse. Patto knickered, another horse shied. Leather squeaked.
Fitz’s eyes adjusted and a huge shape loomed on the bank above, a rider on a horse. Grabbing Patto’s reins he loosened them off, grabbed the saddlebags from the dirt. If whoever it was started down the bank, he’d bareback it into town, head for John’s place, his written pages still with him in his pocket.
Horses greeted each other again, a snort, a blurt, hooves restless. Nothing else moved on the bank. Then sparks flew as something lobbed in the air and hit the dirt with a thud near where his head had been. The figure clambered off with a hard slap of reins on horseflesh, and hooves pounded over fine dirt; no stealth needed now.
A fizz of light. An odour, biting and hot. Gunpowder? A fuse …
Shit.