CHAPTER 47
Winter weakened, rounded a sharp corner and emerged as spring. The new rains came with fury, pounding the iron roof and lashing the windows, tapping and clawing upon the wind. Lightning streaked freely without a tree or a mountain to block its crooked charges, and with each flash Alex’s sleeping face grew crisp in feature, the shadows of raindrops spotting his skin. Leonora pulled the quilt to her chin. Thunder rocked the house, shook the foundation. Between spurts, Alex’s gin-soaked snoring labored from the pillow. She thought of James and Tom and the stockmen traveling through the Northern Territory with the bullocks. They would be soaked and cold to the bone.
The morning light pushed the rain to the east, brushed the land in brilliance. The red earth darkened to a fiery rust. Leaves were washed of dust, glittered dark green and slick. The sky expanded with endless blue, deep and thick. Cockatoos clung to the trees like trapped clouds.
In the kitchen, Meredith and Clare, the new cook and housemaid, worked the bread, chatted and snickered until Leonora entered. “G’day, Mrs. ’Arrington,” greeted Meredith, a pale woman with crooked teeth and the hard, strong hands of a dairymaid. “Whot can I get yeh?”
“Just tea, thank you. But I can make it.”
Meredith put her hands to her hips. “Nothin’ doin’.” She poured the tea and placed it on the table, then tilted her heavy neck to the door. “Got the first egg since the rain. Chooks got it too good. Couple drops of water an’ yeh gotta squeeze the egg outta ’em.” An iron pan screeched atop the stove. “Mr. ’Arrington want his breakfast now?”
“I’ll ask him.”
The office door was open. Alex reclined on his chair, his long legs stretched and propped on the desk, crossed at the ankles. He folded his newspaper. “Morning, darling.”
Leonora glanced around the office at the shelves of books, the bar crystal and framed photographs—Alex and her uncle in hunting clothes, sporting guns over their shoulders; Alex with an array of Indian dignitaries; a picture of his old stallion with a wreath of flowers around his neck. Not a picture of Alex’s wife anywhere. “The cook wants to know if you want breakfast.”
“In a bit.”
Leonora ran her finger across the desk, etched the lines of the brass desk lamp. “How long until the men return with the cattle?” she ventured.
“About another month.” He dropped the newspaper to the floor, pulled his legs off the desk. “Takes a long time to move all those animals.” Alex leaned back with his fingers interlaced and smiled with pleasure. “Already have a contract lined up for meat in Britain. Anything left we’ll sell for a song down at the mine.”
She nodded, moved to the window and spread the curtains. “Looks beautiful out. Do you want to take a walk?”
“Maybe later.” Alex opened a drawer, rifled through files, fanning the corners. “I’ve got to write the church, wire them money.”
“Since when do you contribute to the church?”
“Since they’re doing us a favor.” He dismissed the last comment. “Besides, churches have a lot of pull in these parts. It’s good business to keep them happy.” Alex rubbed his jaw, looked at her as if surprised she was still there. “Was there anything else?”
“I thought maybe we could go to town for the day. Don’t you think it would be nice to get out for a while?”
“Yes, but not today.” He pulled out several papers, then swiveled to the typewriter. “Why don’t you go exploring? You’ve hardly been past the house.” Alex inserted a sheet into the roller, cranked it to the ink. “I’ll tell you what: After I get things settled, we’ll take a trip. I’ll introduce you to the other wives, have a picnic or a party or something. How would that be?”
“All right. Or maybe I can stay with you in Coolgardie for a few weeks?”
He turned to her, the look on his face akin to panic. “Not a chance.”
“Why?”
“A mining town is no place for a lady.” He turned back to the typewriter, pressed the round keys—tap, tap. “Enjoy your exploration.” Tap, tap, tap. “Don’t get lost.” Tap, tap.
Leonora crossed the footbridge over the empty stream, now thick as clay from the storm. The station managers’ quarters stood not far behind, small and quaint, shaded with a huge blackbutt tree. Sun warmed her face, heated the fabric of her dress. Green parrots squawked and clicked gray, muscled tongues, flapped wings with yellow undersides.
She stepped onto the swept porch, rose to her toes and peeked through the window. A coat hung from a hook on the wall; a slouched hat drooped from a chair back. The room was clean and neat, the dishes stacked on the counter. From her view, she could see part of a bedroom, the bed made with clean linens. It was too private, too intimate, and she hurried back over the bridge.
Leonora continued around the homestead, past the chicken coop filled with brown hens, past the enormous water tower that made her feel cold if she just stepped near it. She walked for miles with the sun and the birds and the sky—felt like her body was still while the world did the moving.
A line of shacks sprung from the cracked earth. The smell of fire, of burnt syrup or molasses, hovered above steel roofs, most of them rusted, some with jagged holes. Leonora approached the first hovel. The door was missing, and in its place a black hole welcomed like a rotten mouth. She stepped closer and peered into the darkness tracing the trodden dirt floor. Two feet with gnarled yellow nails appeared from the recesses and she stumbled back, held her hand against her chest. An old man, white hair stark against his black skin, stood in the opening.
“I’m s-s-sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t know anyone lived here.” The man watched her with old, bloodshot eyes. He was tall and thin as bones, dressed oddly in Western clothes that hung from his limbs. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, sweat clinging to her hairline.
Leonora saw the people now. A minute ago, there was no one. They were shadows in the light, soft and quiet, blending into the curves of doorways and the edges of tilted eaves. Women sat on stoops, nursing babies or peeling yams into the laps of their simple straight dresses. Even the thinnest of them carried a plumpness of face, with a wide nose and thick hair. Some of them followed her with piercing, waiting eyes; others gave her no more attention than the air. One woman, her belly slightly swollen with pregnancy, smiled secretly at her.
Leonora stopped and smiled back. “Good morning.” But the woman continued staring at her, through her as if into a memory, with that strange, secret smile and did not answer back, did not follow her with her eyes as Leonora hurried away from the homes. They didn’t want her there. She was nervous, felt ashamed for feeling so.
“G’day,” a little voice came from her feet, and someone pulled at her skirt.
“Well, good morning.” Leonora bent down, caught her breath as she looked at the child. One eye held no pupil, only milky white that bobbed and danced like a reflected cloud. Her face was odd, distorted with the large angles of the mentally retarded. She wore a woman’s faded red skirt cinched around her waist; the ripped hem hung by her ankles. She wore no shirt. Even in the child’s ragged state, she was magnificently beautiful, with bronze skin and black silken hair highlighted with threads of pure gold. Her good eye sparkled, smiled as if all it saw were angels; the white eye held the world in a steady, pearly pool.
Leonora reached for the tiny fingers and held them gently. “What’s your name?”
“Macaria.”
The name, more music than sound, carried on a whisper and tickled her cheek. “Macaria.” Leonora sang the notes again, “Macaria. That’s the most beautiful name I’ve ever heard.” She released the girl’s hand. “I’m Leonora.”
“Macaria!” a voice shouted from the shacks. The little girl’s face stiffened. She ran off without a second glance.
Leonora squatted in the dirt, ran her finger along the child’s footprint. Birds chattered from the trees, cicadas chirped under the sun, but the loneliness of the bush ached. Slowly, she stood, smacked the dust from her skirt.
The walk back seemed longer. The heat burned now. Her shoes pinched her toes. She found a small cluster of spotted gums, eased under the shaded canopy, the ground cool, still damp. It would be a good place for a garden, she thought. She crumbled the dirt in her fingers and the thought grew. Energy flowed back to her limbs. She grabbed a gnarled stick and walked in a square, cut the stick into the ground to mark the perimeter. She put her hands to her hips and looked at the space, could almost see the shoots of beans and tomatoes and cucumbers poking through the ground. She nodded, smiled. It would be her own patch of growth, her own sliver of land—her own.
Two days later, the screaming began.
The screaming filled her dream. First, as a child, standing under a burning tree in the dark, the branches scratching her face, the wind howling in her ear. And then the dream shifted to the orphanage. Flames licked the walls as children tried to escape from the church, the door bolted shut, their cries swirling with the smoke and fire—
Leonora’s eyes popped open, her chest heaving, the terror of the dream close to pain. But beyond her thudding heartbeat the air was not silent, and her ears listened, floundered with the muffled sounds. Her breathing stopped and her skin iced. The screaming was still there, unmistakable and horrid. She jolted upright. Alex was not in bed, his boots gone. She grabbed her dress and fumbled with the buttons, clasping them with crooked gaps between. A shriek cut the air. Her throat whimpered as she tried to rush slow fingers.
Leonora bounded down the stairs, tying up her hair as she ran, her feet slipping at the edges, the screaming growing louder as she reached and plowed through the front door. In the blinding sunlight there were police wagons, men and guns. Her head turned, tried to understand the shouting of orders, the pointed and hurried movements, until a pounding—hard and desperate—drew her ears to the barn, dragged her vision. A uniformed man stood before the locked door, a rifle held easily over his folded arm. High-pitched wailing shattered from the cracks of the barn.
Leonora covered her mouth, her mind dizzy. Another man came from the drive dragging a little Aboriginal boy by the arm. The boy screamed at the barn, screamed, screamed and fought with the policeman, who gave up on the arm and grabbed him, slung him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. And then the sounds congealed—screams that wrenched the gut and hacked it to pieces—howls of women. The nightmare solidified: The police were taking the children.
Leonora sprinted forward with a tearing heart. A priest heard her steps, pivoted like a twisted black pole and smiled. “Ah, good morning; you must be Mrs. Harrington.”
“What is this?” she gasped, her voice high with horror.
A woman came up beside him. “We haven’t met, yet, Mrs. Harrington. I’m Rebecca Malloy, the Deacon’s wife.” She stuck out a hand pleasantly. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
Did they not hear the screaming? She ignored the hand, ignored the introduction. Her body shook. “What’s going on?”
“Forgive me.” The Deacon fumbled with his hat and held it in his hands. “I assumed your husband had told you.”
“Told me what?”
“That we would be coming today to remove the children,” the wife interjected sweetly.
“Removing the children?” Leonora’s gaze flitted spastically between their faces. “Why?”
The woman clicked her teeth and didn’t seem to hear the question. She peered widely at the homestead. “What a lovely home you have.”
Leonora held her ears. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re part of the Aboriginal Protection Board,” Mrs. Malloy said, and sighed. Her voice took on the stiffness of authority. “We run the children’s mission for this county.”
The policeman was back, a flailing, naked baby clutched in his arms. “Perhaps I should explain,” Mrs. Malloy began. “Being an American, you wouldn’t know about these things.” She placed her hand on Leonora’s shoulder as if she were a child. “You see, we help the children—the natives and especially the half-breeds—find permanent homes where they can be raised properly, have a chance at a decent upbringing.”
“These children already have homes.”
“In the rudest sense, yes, but most still live as savages. Our mission gives them exposure to structured society, where they are given proper education, food and clothing. Without our programs, these young children haven’t a chance. They’re quite neglected.”
Leonora stared at them. “They’re not neglected! I’ve seen them myself.”
“Mrs. Harrington, the very fact that they are Aborigines is proof that they are neglected.” Mrs. Malloy veered Leonora to the house. “Come, I’ll explain it all over tea. I must see this lovely home of yours.”
Leonora jerked her arm away. “You’re not taking these children.”
“We are.” The woman stiffened. “They’re wards of the state. It’s the law.”
Behind the Malloys, Leonora saw another child plucked into rough arms—Macaria—her angled face frozen in terror, the white eye popping in panic, the view of angels murdered.
“No!” Leonora pushed through the group. “Let her go!” She pried the child from the big hands and hugged her to her breast. Macaria wrapped her legs around her ribs and buried her head under Leonora’s hair, shivering uncontrollably.
“Get off my property!” Anger raked and left her blind. Leonora pushed the woman into the chest of the Deacon. “All of you!”
Mrs. Malloy, composed, strode with defiance. “I know this is not easy to watch, Mrs. Harrington.” She closed her eyes for a moment as if praying for patience. “But you must remember that the natives don’t think as you and I do. They are a simple people. They soon forget that they even had children. I’ve seen it hundreds of times before. They scream and yell like animals and then they forget.”
Deacon Malloy nodded solemnly. “It’s true.”
Leonora looked at them, one and then the other. “It’s inhuman!”
“On the contrary!” The Deacon recoiled. “Savages raising savages, living in squalor without decent clothing or education, is what’s inhuman. Taking the children away from their parents is the most charitable thing to do.”
“Ah, Deacon and Mrs. Malloy!” came Alex’s voice from behind. “I would have been out to meet you earlier, but my ride took longer than I expected.” He kissed Mrs. Malloy on the cheek. “You should have come in for breakfast.”
A sick, rotten taste filled Leonora’s mouth. “You knew about this?”
“Of course.” He looked at his wife as an enigma. “I told you the church was doing us a good favor.” Alex noticed the child in her arms and scowled in disgust.
The sickness grew and made her weak. Leonora stepped aside and put the child to the ground, held the frozen cheeks between her palms. “Macaria.” Leonora’s voice quivered as she tried to pull the tone straight. “It’s going to be all right. Do you understand?” Leonora tried to catch the child’s prancing gaze, held firm to the cheeks. “It’s going to be all right, Macaria.” She released the face and the child ran under a bush, hid within its scraggy branches.
The group watched Leonora with pity. Alex rolled his eyes. “You have to excuse my wife. She doesn’t know the troubles Australia has had with the natives.” The Malloys nodded. “What’s that pounding?” he asked.
“We had to lock the women in the barn. I hope you don’t mind,” the Deacon said. “Thought it safer for everyone until the ordeal was over. But we’re just about loaded. We’ll be out of your hair in a moment.”
Leonora’s mouth went dry. The window was closing. A policeman locked the back of one of the trucks, pushed a little black head away from the opening. He strode to the driver’s seat and waited, his fat red arm slung over the open window. The smell of urine and vomit wafted from the caged door of the truck. The screaming died down—tortured whimpers took its place.
“Alex, may I have a word with you?” Leonora asked desperately.
He winked at the Malloys. “Excuse me for a moment.” Alex stepped away and smiled for show, but his voice hissed, “Don’t do this, Leonora! The Malloys know everyone this side of Australia. I won’t have you causing a scene.”
She had one chance, one argument. It had to be right. Leonora took his arm. “Alex, I don’t think you’ve thought this through.”
“No?” He folded his arms across his chest. “And why is that, darling?”
She swallowed. “How many Aborigines work as stockmen here?”
“Twelve. Why?”
“How much do you pay them?”
“Not much.”
“And they’re hard workers?”
His eyes narrowed. “I suppose.”
Leonora pulled him closer and murmured, “Seems to me that right now the Aborigines are a benefit. As long as they are employed and left alone, they seem harmless enough. But if we take their children away, they’ll leave and you’ll need to hire all new stockmen, white ones at that.” He was digesting her words and she grew bold. “Beyond that, there’s no telling how the men will react when they return and find their children gone. I’ve heard stories, Alex. They may burn the barns, the house. They’ll cut the fences. They might even kill the horses.” Alex dropped his arms to his sides, his eyes steely.
The door was cracked but not open. She gripped his arm, dug her nails into his shirt. “You do this, Alex, and it’s simply too dangerous for me to stay here alone.”
He straightened his shoulders and patted her head. “The men would protect you.”
“They’re out in the paddocks all day; you know that.” She squeezed his arm tighter. “I’d have no choice but to come to the mine with you, Alex. I don’t mind, really. I can stay in the owner’s quarters and we can have dinner together every night.” She smiled and caressed his arm, her insides ill. “Might be nice actually.”
The door flew open. Alex cleared his throat. “You make some good points.” He pinched her chin. “Perhaps you have some of your uncle’s logic in you after all.”
Her skin cringed with his touch and she smiled wider. Alex passed a look over her shoulder. “The Malloys will be disappointed.”
“Just tell them we’ll take responsibility for the children. Then give them a large donation and they’ll think you the most savvy and generous man around.” Leonora linked her arm into his and rested her head on his biceps—hated him.
The Malloys listened to Alex, assented with bent heads, the air pumped out of their worthy cause. The policemen grunted as they unlocked the trucks, let the fruit of their labor escape. Children spilled out and rushed the barn, fled to the bush with tears and jerky movements. A policeman slung his gun to his back and helped the children raise the bolt on the barn. Mothers spilled into the open, blind with sun and grief, fell atop one another and crawled in the dirt for their children. New wails alighted as children clung to necks and hips.
Leonora turned away as she held tight to the sobs, swallowed them as one would a horse pill, one after the other. The horror, the cruelty, of it all nearly knocked her to the ground.
The empty, fetid trucks lumbered away. The Malloys left the station, their greedy pockets thick with cash, to save another round of children at another station, to steal another round of natives from their homes, to rip another round of lives from their mothers’ breasts.
Alex came up behind her and kissed the top of her head. And she wished him dead.