Father never liked hawkers or travelling salesmen calling in at the farm. We believed this was because he was ashamed of our poor state. We looked forward to these colourful visitors because they distracted us from the gruelling and tedious farm chores and the feeling of isolation. Mother liked these visitors too and sometimes bought a comb, a new pair of scissors, cloth, ribbons or some miracle potion such as Sea Foam, a pink mixture that we were told cured anything and everything. The hawkers brought colourful wares for us to see and showed little knick-knacks and baubles that women liked, especially women so far from city shops. As the hawkers declared themselves fortune tellers as well, this was an added treat when Father was well away. We were eager to know what the future held in store for us. In our dull lives, they gave us hope by telling us our fortunes.
These travellers called often until Father suddenly took exception to one of the Afghan hawkers. Because of the heat and dust in summertime, and the long journeys between stops, Mother always offered a traveller a cool drink of water or some morsel that might be available. But one such day Father had cross words with Mr Khan, one of the hawkers, because Father believed he had been overly familiar with Pauline. Father saw their behaviour as flirting, and flirting as loose and immoral behaviour, especially if one of his own daughters was involved.
Mr Khan was tall and handsome, with sea-green eyes, and he cut a romantic figure in his flowing white robes, saffron turban and long black waistcoat. It was difficult to know how old he was for his black beard hid most of his face. From his white teeth and the slight crow’s-foot wrinkles around his smiling eyes, I thought he must be only in his early thirties, an ideal age for Pauline. My eyes often lingered on him too, and when our eyes met, I was charmed.
We had become friendly with Mr Khan over a period of time, a man not only cannily informed but so charming. He would display lovely cloth, pointing out how it matched our eyes or our hair. One time he held red ribbon up to my hair, and I was left wondering what he meant when he called me a butterfly and put his hands together to copy the actions of the flitting creature. Mother put her hand to her mouth and gave me a worried look. I thought it an innocent comment and laughed. I asked him, ‘Mr Khan, whom will I marry?’
Shaking his head he responded, as he always did, ‘Sorry, Missy, I cannot tell you.’ I noticed he couldn’t answer my sisters’ questions on this most important topic either. This was the one and only piece of information we were really interested in. Yet he never answered.
On the day Mr Khan was brazenly flirting with Pauline while showing her pretty ribbons, he had forgotten to tie up his hungry horse which wandered, complete with cart, into one of the barns where our meagre hay supplies were stored. It was there that father found the hungry animal tucking in for a feed and removed the horse by grabbing the reins and pressing down on the bit. Mr Khan was run off the farm at gunpoint. We were dismayed at Father’s violent outburst. We couldn’t understand his behaviour. Mother explained, ‘Your father is worried that the hawker will take Pauline away. He remembers what happened to his mother.’
Mr Khan’s visit that day didn’t end the matter for Father continued to curse and shout at him whenever they met on the road. Not long after, Frederick was returning from Sedan one afternoon when he saw Father and the Afghan feuding on the track leading to the farm. Father blocked Mr Khan’s way and was trying to force him to turn back by aiming a shotgun at him. When Frederick arrived, Father retracted the terrible weapon and the hawker turned back. Father shouted after him, ‘Keep away from my womenfolk, or else.’
Four weeks later, about the time we next expected him to visit, Mr Khan was found dead with a fractured skull on the roadside near Sedan. It was decided at the inquest that he must have fallen from his wagon, there was no other explanation for the blow to his head. The weal on his arm and across his face, however, couldn’t be explained. But we all knew Father was fond of using his whip.
When we heard of Mr Khan’s death we were horrified and Pauline wept uncontrollably. I was rather surprised at this outpouring of sorrow and it made me suspicious something else had been going on. Mother kept telling the distraught Pauline to pull herself together, telling her, ‘My girl, he was only a hawker and you didn’t really know him, a foreigner, not even a Christian.’
Such remarks failed to comfort Pauline. She would fly out of the door and into the paddock where she sobbed all the louder. Mother never told Father the reason why Pauline was always crying, she kept inventing other excuses such as her favourite lamb dying. We talked of Mr Khan’s death between ourselves for months afterwards, but whenever Father was present we remained silent. We wondered why he refused to discuss the death. After all, Father was always free with his opinions and advice, yet when Mr Khan was concerned, Father remained silent.
Frederick also had his suspicions, telling us, ‘I know Father has something to do with this.’
Mother was shocked, ‘How can you accuse your father of such a terrible crime?’
‘Mother, you weren’t there that day. When I came across them on the roadway, Father was pointing the gun right in Mr Khan’s face and shouting at him to keep away from his daughters. Mr Khan just sat there bravely, refusing to defend himself, or budge.’
‘But that doesn’t prove anything,’ Mother answered.
‘Father threatened to thrash him. What are we to believe? And rumours abound at the pub.’
Startled, Mother asked, ‘Since when have you been going to the pub?’
‘I don’t, my friends go there and they told me. They’ve been asking me questions about Father. They all know that he treats us harshly and sometimes whips us. And Mr Khan had unexplained whip welts on him.’
‘Surely not, son? Who is spreading such wicked rumours about what goes on in this house? What business is it of theirs?’
‘I’m sure no one is at all interested what goes on here normally, but when such things as unexplained deaths happen in this sleepy district, people will question anybody to get the answers they want. Look, I plan to leave here when I find a position on a cattle station up north. I’m not willing to put up with his whip and temper any longer. And if I can’t find a situation soon, I’ll go and live with Grandpa at Eden Valley. They’ve told me I can go there any time.’
Mother put her hand to her mouth and gasped with dismay when Frederick reminded her that family matters such as Father’s brutality were discussed, just as was everyone else’s business in Towitta and Sedan.
For weeks after Mr Khan’s death, Father was edgy and barely spoke, not even to Mother. Surely Father wouldn’t be so stupid as to murder an innocent hawker. The inquest findings declared it a tragic accident, but each night after we went to bed we would discuss it as a murder, for that’s what we believed it to be.
Pauline was more affected by his death than the rest of us. It seemed to trigger off some deep-held fears about our own situation, of our isolation on a dusty farm. Each day she spoke of her wish to be rescued by some young man passing through, someone like Mr Khan. She was older than me and her chances of marriage were slipping away, as were Mother’s when she married Father. After Mr Khan’s suspicious death, our storytelling included new tales of Arabian sheiks riding frisky white Arab stallions who rescued fair maidens from imprisonment. We shared our fantasies about Mr Khan, that he was really a sheik. Pauline told me she should have run away with him when she had the chance.
Not long after, Pauline fell sick with tuberculosis. During her fevers she fantasised about what could have been between her and the handsome Afghan. The doctor told Mother that such fantasies were part of the condition. He also told us she could have fits and have unusually strong feelings towards men.
Pauline made sure we did not forget Mr Khan, and she convinced us about Father’s involvement in his death. Despite the chronic illness that made Pauline weak, she found the energy to be a good hater of Father. She blocked him from her life by avoiding him and never talking with him unless it was necessary. Mother was the natural buffer between us and Father. She soothed many blazing outbursts of blame and criticism.
At this point Sister Kathleen said she didn’t want to hear any more of the story that evening for she was upset about the handsome and innocent Mr Khan. When I said I had more to tell her about Father and his violence she said she didn’t want to hear any more for now, she needed time think about what I’d told her. It was nearly a week before she came to see me again. I hadn’t seen her around the hospital and I thought maybe she was avoiding me, but she told me she had been ill for several days. She also told me she couldn’t stop thinking about my family having to live with Father’s violence, and that the story about the charming Mr Khan had so upset her that it made her cry as though she’d known him herself.
‘Honestly, Mary, I think if I’d been there, I’d have taken the shotgun to your father myself.’
‘I can tell you, there was never a day I didn’t have those feelings. But you think these things, you never carry them out.’