I woke to the harsh cries of magpies, and the sound of them dropping half-eaten gumnuts on the tin roof above my head. It was time to get up and go on our way.
All day we clopped along in the buggy over the dirt road to Southern Cross. The further we went, the more flat, dry and boring the countryside became. Hardly anything moved – except us. A few black cockatoos flew up from a ragged clump of trees. Once we came across a group of kangaroos. They sat perfectly still, staring at us as if we were the strangest creatures on earth. Then they turned and calmly loped away across the plain.
Just before nightfall, we made camp again under the only large tree for miles around. Within minutes the magpies and parrots started shouting at each other – or at us, I’m not sure which. We made a fire and the driver cooked damper. Then we spread our bed-rolls under the stars.
By morning the fire had gone out and every last crumb of damper had been eaten by wild creatures in the night. I could see the black shapes of cockatoos high up in the tree. They sat perfectly still. I stared at them and they stared back with just the odd quick turn of a head or flick of a beak. The wind sighed across the empty plain.
We made do with a few dry biscuits and water, boiled the night before, for breakfast. Then we set off again.
As the day wore on the heat became intense. We sat in the buggy with our hats pulled down, our eyes closed and our heads lolling from side to side while the horses plodded on across the sandy countryside. Their pace slowed. Their hooves sank into the loose surface of the track. Once or twice we all had to get down and walk until we reached firmer ground. Then we climbed aboard again and sat dozing and waking by turns. I was convinced we were lost and thought we should turn back.
‘Don’t be silly, Clara,’ Mother said sharply. ‘I’m sure the driver knows exactly where we are.’
At the top of a rise, the driver called ‘Whoa’. The horses stopped and we all sat up. I thought he was going to ask us to walk again. I squinted into the glare. Away in the distance I saw a cluster of buildings. Southern Cross? The driver rested his horses briefly on the ridge and we came down into the town.
As we drew closer, I heard a familiar sound. An unmistakeable thump, thump, thump, like a heartbeat, drifted out across the plain and my spirits lifted. It was a sound I hadn’t heard since we left Queensland. The sound of a gold mine, the mechanical feet of its hammers stamping away, breaking up the rock to reveal the treasure inside.
Pa had always followed the gold: from our first home in New Zealand, across the Tasman Sea to Victoria; from Bendigo to Ballarat, up into New South Wales, and on to Queensland. When the gold petered out and the mines closed down in one field we moved on to another. ‘This time,’ Pa would say. ‘This time we’ll strike it rich for sure!’ And we did – sometimes. A nugget here, a panning dish full of colour there. So many small celebrations. Sometimes we were cold and hungry but there were always fish in the streams, rabbits to trap, kangaroos to shoot. Mother planted carrots, peas and silverbeet. Then a new field would be discovered and we would move on again to try our luck on fresh diggings. Gold is in Pa’s blood.
The main street was full of people.
‘There they are!’ Mother said. She leaned so far out from the side of the moving buggy that I was worried she would fall as she waved to Mary and Emily. They were already jumping up and down, turning to hug each other, then waving to us again.
The crowd surged forward and I saw four little girls playing hide and seek in and out of legs and skirts. A man who was probably their father was reaching out, trying to catch the children and keep them from running under the wheels of the buggy. Mary and Emily pushed to the front of the crowd of locals who had gathered to collect their long-awaited supplies.
The buggy finally came to a stop and we clambered down into the arms of our family. The children hid shyly behind the adults, staring out at us with big round eyes. There were tears and laughter, hugs and greetings. Mother held both Mary and Emily at once, kissing their wet cheeks, and wiping her own eyes. When she bent down to speak to the little girls, Mary and Emily hugged me and Susan in turn.
Mary took a step back and held me at arm’s length. ‘Oh, just look at you, Clara!’ she exclaimed. ‘You are so grown up.’
Emily held Susan’s hands. ‘Such beautiful girls!’ she said. ‘The young men about town will have to be beaten off with sticks.’
‘I should hope not,’ Mother said, trying to sound horrified. But she couldn’t stop smiling.
Mary’s husband, Tom Farren, searched for our bags amongst the sacks of flour, picks and shovels, parcels and boxes. Mr Farren seemed somehow smaller than I remembered, but he had a jolly face and twinkly eyes.
We thanked our driver for his kindness on the journey, gathered up our belongings and walked across the dusty road to a large, rambling building with a sign that read Club Hotel.
‘The new extensions are not finished yet, but come and see what we’ve already done,’ Mary said, eager to show us around.
‘Let’s have a cup of tea first,’ Emily suggested. ‘You look tired, Mother, and I’m sure Clara and Susan are famished.’
‘Of course,’ Mary agreed. ‘I’m so excited to see you all that I have completely forgotten my manners. Come in to the kitchen and sit down. We are planning a new sitting room, but bedrooms are in such demand we can hardly build them fast enough.’
‘I hope we’re not putting you out,’ Mother said, looking around the large room where one wall seemed to have been knocked out and a wooden bench added.
‘Oh, Mother,’ Mary cried in dismay. ‘We have been so looking forward to you coming, how can you even think that you would be a bother to us?’ Mother smiled as Mary hugged her yet again. Tom sent the children outside and dragged extra chairs to the table in the centre of the room. There was a wide fireplace against the outer wall. Two huge pots, suspended on chains, hung above the fire. A stew was bubbling away in one. It smelled wonderful and reminded me how hungry I was. Steam was rising from the other where water was being boiled to make the tea.
The room was hot with the fire on one side and a warm wind blowing in through the open window on the other. It was late afternoon, but I already knew that it would be several hours before the chill of the desert night began to cool the building.
Emily poured the tea. I asked for cold water, but was told that it was not safe to drink unless it had been boiled first. They had run out of rainwater and had to have it carted from a bore outside the town. Mary offered beer and soda from the bar instead. Mother was aghast.
‘She’s only fourteen,’ she said. ‘Far too young to be drinking beer.’
‘I know it’s not legal,’ Mary replied. ‘But there are more important things for the police to be worrying about out here.’ Emily stopped pouring for a moment and gave Mary a meaningful look. Mary met her eyes and went on quickly. ‘They understand that sometimes beer is all we have,’ she said.
We drank our tea and ate the griddle cakes that Mary placed on the table. An animated conversation started up again and it was hard to get a word in between Mary and Emily telling us about Southern Cross and Mother enthusing over our visit to Fremantle. Tom had gone back to his work in the bar but the children hovered until Mary gave them a cake each and sent them outside again.
That night we slept in real beds for the first time since we left York.