8

As we rode closer to Calpa, I could smell my supper on the breeze, the familiar aroma of mutton stew. Seeing Flora in such distress had taken my appetite away, although I knew from long experience that I had to eat, as hunger brought out the worst in me.

Lonergan was in the laundry, washing his hands, and gave me a cautious glance, as well he might.

‘Did you see the black trackers out the other day when you went to Gowrie Station?’ I asked.

He blinked several times and cast his eyes heavenwards, looking for the right answer. ‘Um, yeah? I think I did.’

‘You think.’

‘I did, sir.’

‘And did you see that they were armed?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Cunning little toss-rag. Put here to keep an eye on me.

‘And you wired this observation to Bourke?’

‘Yes, sir. Because I thought the blacks were to be disarmed. Sergeant Martin said so.’

‘But you weren’t there when he issued that order.’

‘No, sir. But Trooper McNamara said Sergeant Martin had logged the order and he’d seen it.’

‘Is Trooper McNamara your commanding officer?’

‘No, sir. You are, sir.’

‘Then why did you not query me first?’

‘Ah … because—’

‘Because I have a reputation as being the maddest trooper in the Bourke Division, which includes Walgett and Wanaaring and therefore is some fucking achievement, right?’

‘Ah, yes, sir.’

A brave answer, I’d give the hairy little bogtrotter that.

‘I could be howling at the moon, Trooper, but I am still your senior officer, and if you wish to query my orders you come to me. Now, go and muck out the stables.’

‘But it’s dark, sir.’

I pointed at a lantern. He picked it up and went out the back. I saw the lantern light bobbing around while he looked for the pitchfork. With him out of the way I could have my supper in peace, and I filled my plate with the mashed potato and mutton stew that had been left for me on the stovetop. There was also a pie dish covered with a chipped old plate. I lifted it and saw rice pudding, smelled the warm milk and nutmeg.

While I forked potato and stew into my mouth, my thoughts returned to Flora, her screams of rage, her headlong rush back to the river to extinguish herself. I put my fork down with a shaking hand, a lump in my throat no food could get past.

In my room, I opened the drawer of the battered old bedside cabinet and took out a thick wad of letters tied with a white ribbon – one of Flora’s which she’d given to me. These were her letters to me, carefully hoarded. I re-read them often, to bring her close and to remind myself of the man she saw in me, a man I sometimes barely recognised.

~

Not long after I went to tea at the Kirkbrides’ there was a church picnic down by the river. On the day of the picnic, hessian sacks of grain were taken down to the river’s edge and laid out for people to sit on. Men lit fires and boiled up billies, women spread rugs and everyone laughed and chattered. Kids threw balls or found sticks to wave about. Beer and lemonade bottles sat in the river shallows keeping cool; men cooked mutton chops on an old ploughshare, the familiar sizzle of mutton fat bringing in the flies and the hunger. Reverend Hickson, in his dog collar and black coat, said grace and everyone fell on the plates of potato salad, damper and meat.

If anyone anywhere wanted to destroy such a peaceful, harmless, idyllic scene, they’d see me, clean uniform, shiny boots, astride the mighty Dancer, looking humourless and longing for a mutton chop. Eventually, having assessed the threat to the picnickers as probably next to zero, I dismounted and had a cool lemonade, brought to me by Nessie Kirkbride.

‘Would you like something to eat?’ she asked.

‘I can get it myself, but thank you,’ I said just as Grace came racing up, almost bowling Nessie over in her excitement. A flock of vivid green budgerigars flew over just at that moment, and we all looked up as they swooped and looped in unison.

‘Come on, there’s going to be games and I need you to help,’ Grace said, tugging at her sister.

Grace and Nessie left me to my lemonade and I watched as they melted back into the group. Grace was a long-legged, coltish child, her dark hair brushed back from her face and caught up with an enormous white ribbon. The two little boys from Tindaree, the Forsythe kids, followed her everywhere, as she did seem to know how to get amusements happening.

I downed a few chops and some damper, and went and stood by the fire to have a smoke and a cup of tea. Grace sprang up and brought me a plate with some cake on it.

‘Dundee cake,’ she said. ‘It’s very good.’

‘Your favourite?’ I asked, taking the plate.

‘All cake is my favourite,’ she said. ‘The sweeter the better.’

‘Where’s your sister Flora got to?’

‘Oh, she’s wandered off somewhere, roaming about the place. Mother doesn’t like it but she won’t stop.’

I looked around but couldn’t see her anywhere.

‘Shall I go and find her?’ she asked.

‘No, then there’ll be two of you roaming the bush,’ I said. ‘I’d better find her.’

‘She’ll be on the riverbank,’ Grace said, skipping away. ‘Tell her to hurry as we’re having an egg-and-spoon race soon.’

The riverbank to the south, heading back towards town, was covered in rocks and slime, so I wandered along to the north, not far, just to see where she was. I kept walking, enjoying the cool breeze from the water, the ducks waddling away and jumping into the river as I passed, small finches skimming the surface.

Around the bend I came across her. She’d taken her hat, shoes and stockings off and had her skirts bunched high up as she waded in the water, her white, shapely legs glowing in the sunlight, her dark hair swept up, her graceful neck on display. She was softly singing to herself as she waded about, the water glittering around her thighs. Then she saw me.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Kirkbride, I noticed you missing and—’

She waded out of the water and dropped her skirts. ‘What do you want, Trooper Hawkins?’

‘To see if you were safe, that’s all.’

‘Did my mother send you?’

‘No, I—’

‘This is my backyard and always has been. I’m perfectly able to enjoy it safely.’

‘I’m sure you are, but there are snakes, and look, could you just come back to the picnic? It would make my job easier.’

She hesitated, then said, ‘Turn away and I’ll finish getting dressed.’

I turned away as instructed, but it was hard to turn away from that picture of her wading in the river. She joined me, keeping a respectable distance.

‘Don’t tell my mother, please, or anyone.’

‘I won’t.’

She had her hat in her hand and stopped to pin it back on. ‘I find groups of people difficult … We do lead very quiet lives out here.’

‘But you are with your siblings every day.’

‘You don’t have to make an effort with siblings, but you do with strangers. Even people I’ve known all my life are still strangers.’ She paused and added, ‘You know what I’m talking about.’

‘I do,’ I nodded, glancing at her.

In that moment our gaze met and she smiled, a slow, sensual movement of her shining lips that made me catch my breath.

Grace came trotting along the stony bank, the big bow in her hair flopping. ‘Come on, Flora, you’re going to miss the three-legged race. You missed the egg-and-spoon race, and you always win that.’

Flora ran off with Grace, the two of them holding hands, laughing together, and my world shifted on its axis.

~

I put the letters away after carefully retying Flora’s ribbon around them. Shovelled in the remains of my supper and prepared for the evening’s duty.

We returned to Inveraray to conduct interviews with the men who’d been working that day. The road to Inveraray was also the road to Tindaree Station and eventually Larne. The Tindaree homestead wasn’t on the river, being set further to the west. Along their fenceline were thick stands of remnant scrub. We plodded past, listening to the creak of saddle leather, the rattle of the sulky wheels and the cries of wild dogs somewhere out in the dark.

A shot rang out through the stillness.

‘Jesus,’ Baines cried, instinctively ducking down. ‘What the hell?’

Then a volley of gunshot and a man shouted. I reached for my rifle. The detectives were unarmed. More shots rang out. They were getting closer.

‘What do we do?’ Baines shouted.

I fired my rifle into the air, so the shooters would know someone was here.

‘Make ready,’ I yelled at the troopers, who were breaking position and skittering about. A second later, a huge kangaroo bounded onto the road, hit the side of the cart, staggered and took off towards Calpa. My heart was thumping like his must have been.

I fired into the air again and shouted, ‘Police, lower your weapons!’ A bullet whistled past. Those fuckers. I wheeled my horse around to go in the direction of the shots. The troopers, like a bunch of ducklings, cantered behind me. I hadn’t given the order, so what the hell were they doing?

‘Hawkins,’ Denning yelled after me. ‘Inveraray, now!’

‘Fall in, now,’ I shouted at my troopers. I expected Denning enjoyed that little display of poor discipline.

Further along we stopped. There was no more gunfire, just the sounds of three men panting, and the jostle of six lads on horseback, the rush of the river and crickets.

‘Bloody hell,’ Baines said, white as a dish of milk. ‘They could have shot us by mistake.’

I nursed my rifle across the saddle as we rode along, keeping an eye on the scrub to our left. We reached the turnoff for Inveraray and rode up towards the glow on the horizon, the light from a dozen or more kerosene lanterns. Smoke rose from chimneys in the homestead and the men’s quarters, the acrid aroma mixing with the scent of the roast mutton they’d had for supper.

McIntosh came out and Denning and Baines told him how they wanted it to work and got down to it. Men left the quarters in pairs, and after the interviews straggled back inside.

I took my troopers off to the side, quietly gave them an emphatic reminder about the importance of waiting for my order, and then sent them off to take instruction from Baines. I lit a cigarette, leant against the rails of a horse yard and watched the stars until McIntosh came over.

‘Your doggers out tonight?’ I asked.

‘Out every night this time of year – why?’

‘Didn’t you hear shots earlier? Too close to the road to be safe.’

‘Nope, didn’t hear a thing,’ he said and lit up a fag. ‘These coppers won’t get much from my men. They’re all good lads, hardworking, respectful.’

‘They’re after witnesses. Anyone who saw or heard anything at all that can help build a timeline.’

Denning appeared and asked me to go up to the house and get the list of valuables James and the girls had with them in the cart. I ground my cigarette out and started for the homestead, I climbed the stairs to the verandah and knocked. The maid answered and I told her what I’d come for. She ran off and several minutes later returned with a sealed envelope – and Joe Pryor carrying his black bag.

‘Gus – what brings you up here?’

‘Escorting the detectives. You?’

‘Flora Kirkbride. She’s very unwell. She’s just about destroyed her bedroom, cut the bedding to ribbons, screams at her parents if they come near her. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

She blamed me, of course she did. I’m sure a lot of other people did too.

‘Look, you better wait and ride back with us,’ I said. ‘Been a disturbance on the road tonight.’

‘What happened?’

‘Could be roo shooters getting a bit out of hand, but somebody’s not being careful where they shoot.’

We took a seat on a bench on the verandah and waited. Did a lot of waiting in this job. A bit like the army, days of crushing boredom and then fifteen minutes of terror, then it was back to writing up requisitions for soap.

~

Back in town I went and had a beer at the Royal with the detectives. With Baines, anyway – Denning went to his room. There were a few locals, drinking and playing darts. A fire dancing in the grate, Wally’s grumpy kelpie stretched out in front of it, growling at men who got too close.

‘Denning a good boss?’ I asked, as Wally served us a couple of beers, his oily white hair glistening in the lamplight.

‘Never met him before. I’m from the Detective Branch in Phillip Street and he’s a detective from the Head Station at Arncliffe. All of two words from him on the train to Bourke, yes and no.’

‘Been inspector for long?’

‘Couple of years, so I hear. He was a copper in England before he come out here. Solves most of the street murders he works on.’

‘Which would be the same as in the bush, I’d imagine – drink, fight, fall over, kill the other bloke on your way down.’

‘Pretty much,’ Baines laughed.

‘What did you find out from the men on Inveraray?’

‘A few of the blokes reckon they saw James at the dance in Larne. Said they couldn’t help noticing the boss’s son at a dance for the workers. Here’s what I reckon: killers see a rich man’s son and heir and decide he’s gotta have something on him worth stealing, so he’s marked. And they waited for him.’

‘Maybe,’ I stubbed out my cigarette. ‘But attacking the boss’s son, risking him identifying you and then losing your job and being branded a troublemaker is not something the men out here would do. They look rough but they aren’t stupid.’

‘Then they weren’t locals,’ he said. ‘Blow-ins, maybe, looking for easy pickings.’

‘More likely, yes. Lot of them about when the crutching’s on.’

‘Why were the Kirkbrides at a workers’ dance? Tell me that.’

‘The girls were seen there too?’ I asked.

‘Nope, nobody saw them. So where were they? Doesn’t make sense.’ Baines took a long pull on his beer and looked around. ‘Is Kirkbride liked in the district? Got a temper, mistreat his staff? Had affairs? Got another man’s wife knocked up?’

I shrugged. ‘Not that I’ve heard of.’

Baines smiled. ‘I bet there’s plenty of that goes on out here, nothing else to do.’

‘Nothing but fencing, mustering, dipping, clipping, shearing, branding, feeding, fixing, castrating—’

‘Yeah, all right. But while you’re virtuously tucked up under your police regulation blanket dreaming of becoming a better cop, Robert Kirkbride could be having a taste of someone else’s missus and got caught out.’

‘Not my business. If they were going at it like rabbits in a public place, I’d have to do something. Once they shut that front door, mate, it’s not a police matter.’

‘What sorta crimes you got out this way?’ Baines asked.

‘Public drunkenness, failure to renew a firearms licence, threatening or abusive language, aggravated assault, vagrancy, escape from custody, desertion of wives and children, and stock theft. Stock theft is a very big problem.’

‘How do you steal a herd of sheep?’

‘Just take ’em. These are big stations spreading for hundreds of miles. Kirkbride has boundary riders, same as Gowrie and Tindaree, but the smaller outfits don’t have the money to do that. You need money to grow wool. If you succeed at pinching another man’s stock, you make a tidy profit to put back into your own business.’

‘Is that something Kirkbride would do?’

‘Wouldn’t like to speculate. But he’s got no reason to pinch other men’s sheep.’

‘Mate, some men don’t need a reason.’