‘Elsa,’ her sister said, surprised as she opened the bakery’s front door. ‘This is very early. The store’s not even open. And my goodness, look at your hair. It’s all over the place. You know to plait it tight and not loose.’
Elsa had trudged into town, her heart heavy, her head empty. Even as hot and bothered as she was, she’d known not to go around the back door because Frank didn’t like that. She pushed inside, not bothering to fuss with her hair. ‘It’s not about Pa, in case you’re wondering,’ she said pointedly.
‘Then what?’ Rosie snapped, impatient. ‘I’m very busy getting ready to open.’
The aromas inside the bakery were irresistible. Elsa’s stomach growled, and she could feel her mouth water, the saliva pooling over her tongue. Hot baked bread was cooling on the vast benches. Buns with fruit dotted through them sat alongside, and rows of jam tarts, their edges neatly pinched and perfectly formed were behind them. She feared she would dribble as she told her sister the awful news. Just to be on the safe side, she wiped a hand over her mouth.
‘It’s George,’ she blurted. ‘He’s been killed in Victoria.’
‘Oh!’ Rosie’s hand clapped over her throat. ‘Oh no, not George. Not our George. How? Who—’
‘I came for some stores and the post yesterday and there was a letter to Pa. A kind gentleman from Western Districts in Victoria had sent it to inform us.’ When she’d had to come to town, Elsa hardly bothered any longer to visit her sister in the bakery. She’d usually been ignored so there was no point. She would do what she had to do, turn around and go home.
‘Victoria?’ Rosie looked bleak. ‘George travelled far on his adventure.’
Frank came lumbering into the storefront. ‘I heard a cry, what is it?’ Flour-dust handprints were on his apron and a dollop of custard was stuck high up on it, as if he’d taken a bite of something and missed his mouth.
Rosie was groping for the bench to hold herself up. ‘It’s George. Elsa has just said he’s been killed.’ She leaned back heavily on the bench, with a hand on her throat. Her brow furrowed as she waved Elsa away.
Elsa blanched at that. She just needed someone to—
‘Lord love us, that’s awful,’ Frank cried, and pressed a fist to his chest. ‘Where? When?’
‘Casterton,’ Elsa said dully, resigned to standing in the store without an embrace from her sister.
‘Good Lord. That’s days from here.’ He was now by Rosie’s side and patting her shoulder. He didn’t seem to notice she edged away. ‘And Curtis?’ he asked. ‘He’s not taken a downturn, I hope.’
Elsa knew Frank was genuine for news of his father-in-law; however, later in the day, it would all be about the business of family and succession. She swallowed that down. ‘He is distraught, of course.’
‘Frank,’ Rosie said, dashing tears and pinching her nose. ‘We must close the store today.’ She groped inside her pinafore pocket to pull out a handkerchief.
All three looked at the produce on the benches. Elsa itched to grab bread and buns, but dared not. Not yet.
‘Rosie, dearest,’ Frank began, his eyes wide in his florid face. ‘We need to remain calm. You must go to your father, and I will stay in the store for the morning. You know how busy it gets.’ Now his gaze darted around the store. ‘And after midday, I will close up and then we will decide on a course of action.’
That was sensible, Elsa decided. But how would she cope with Rosie in their house—or hut as Rosie called it—with her father? Still, it had to be that way.
Rosie tucked loose hair back under her cap. She dabbed at tears and daintily wiped her nose. She looked all blotchy, crying for her lost brother.
Elsa felt the lump in her throat again, yet still, tears would not come. It was as if grief was holding them back and not letting go.
‘Off you go then, dearest, go with your sister. But be back soon.’
Rosie looked up. ‘I’ll take the cart, Frank. I’m not walking miles there and then miles back.’ Not expecting resistance, that was clear, she pulled open the ties on her pinafore. ‘Wait out the front, Elsa. I won’t be a minute. Frank already had the horse hitched up for his delivery rounds earlier this morning.’
Frank was retreating to the kitchen and Rosie was about to follow him out the back. ‘Might I pack some of this delicious produce to take home for Pa?’ Elsa asked guilelessly. Today she expected no resistance—Frank did turn and gave Rosie a small nod. They’d never been generous, and Elsa had found on some occasions that if she encountered Frank in the store and not Rosie, she’d had to hand over her pennies. Rosie had never taken money from her but never offered much either.
Her sister pointed at the bread, loaves that looked crusty and still had steam floating above them. ‘A loaf and a fruit bun,’ Rosie said loudly. ‘You haven’t brought a basket so take mine. It has a cloth in it. Both of which need to come back when I come back.’ Her sister stepped behind the curtain.
‘Yes, Rosie,’ Elsa said to thin air. Words were exchanged between husband and wife and then the back door opened and closed.
Rosie reappeared from behind the curtain, moving fast, her voice low. ‘Take four loaves and four big buns, and I’ll put in a couple of tarts. The meat pies we’ll pack under all of that and cover with the cloth. Hurry,’ she said, as they heard the horse and cart being driven around to the front.
Surprised, but as bid, Elsa packed the items into the basket and covered them quickly. Ushered outside by a flap of her sister’s hands, she waited until Frank had pulled up the cart. He stepped down and Rosie climbed up unaided. ‘Come along,’ she said to Elsa, while taking the reins.
Elsa put the basket into the cart and climbed up to sit by her sister. A quick wave of hands between Rosie and her husband, and then Rosie snapped the reins. The horse and cart pulled away.
As they drove, Elsa knew she’d be interrogated over the news, but it didn’t happen right away. Except for an occasional snivel, and a hiccup—Rosie was letting out her grief—there was no other sound from her sister. Glancing sideways, Elsa could see Rosie really was struggling, yet when she ventured a reassuring hand on Rosie’s arm, her sister had shaken it off, irascibly.
On the way out of town, Elsa studied the horse, Peppin, pulling the cart. He wasn’t always harnessed. She knew Frank sometimes saddled him up and rode the poor thing around if there’d only been a few deliveries. And these days with a reduced population in the town, that seemed to be the case. She wondered why he’d been harnessed today. Perhaps Frank was feeling the weather again and hadn’t wanted to ride or walk. He was always so florid in the face lately.
A fresh breeze whipped up her hair. She found a length of worn calico ribbon in her pinafore and tied it back. As the light gusts brought the scent of the sea, in the morning light she could see white-tipped waves in the distance. She breathed deeply, closing her eyes for just a moment to capture that hint of salt and seaweed. The strong bouquet of the coastal daisy, its new shoots piney and sweet, was a reminder of a familiar part of home. All the scents of home never failed to make her feel as if there was some reason for her existence, but she couldn’t ever capture what that reason might be. It just felt like hope, a fresh start every time she smelled it, and like—
‘Now with George gone,’ Rosie said, all matter-of-fact. The cart had gone past the last of the buildings and pedestrians in the town and was headed out along Main Road. Lake Charra came into view, and the women crinkled their noses as its sulphuric odour drifted by. They passed the handsome Lakeside House at a steady pace. ‘And Pa too ill and not likely to recover, you will have to think about where you’ll live.’
Elsa was taken aback. ‘Will I just?’ she said, trying to keep down a sudden burst of anger. ‘Pa is not yet dead, if you don’t mind, and I will stay there until he has departed. As for George, can we not give him at least a little of our thoughts before you bundle me up and get rid of me?’
Rosie scoffed and a breath puffed out. ‘Not what I meant.’ Her nose was swollen and red, but the tears had stopped. ‘Do you know when George died? Did this letter writer tell us?’ She seemed very insistent, even angry perhaps.
Not the reaction Elsa expected from Rosie on this occasion. Perplexed, she said, ‘It seems about two or three weeks ago, by the date on the letter.’
‘Took a long time to arrive, then, didn’t it?’ Rosie was snappy. ‘Could’ve walked faster.’
Elsa shrugged. ‘Anything could have happened to delay the mail.’
‘Well, come along then. Did the man say how he died?’
‘Bushrangers killed him.’
‘Bushrangers?’ Rosie erupted. ‘There’s no such thing anymore.’ She looked at Elsa before sharply turning back to concentrate on the road. ‘Where?’
‘I told you. Casterton. It’s in the Western Districts.’
‘Elsa, that is a huge area. Where exactly? What else do you know? Was he robbed?’
‘I—would presume as much, and that is such a horrible thought. I have no other details but what was in the letter. You’ll see it when we get home.’ Elsa felt a round of painful thuds strike from within as her pulse raced. Her poor brother. He would have had nothing to hand over to bushrangers—is that why he got himself killed? ‘There are so many questions, Rosie, we may never have the answers.’
A mile along, Lake Fellmongery, named for the now declining business of removing wool from sheepskin, appeared on their right. Fresh air—not long to go now before their turn-off. Rosie flicked the reins. ‘Come on, Peppin,’ she yelled ahead. ‘Get a move on.’
Peppin trotted his way to the hitching rail out the front of their father’s house and waited patiently to be tied. Elsa alighted, put down the basket and patted his muzzle, whispering her thanks. She knotted the reins loosely over the rail.
Rosie braked the cart and jumped to the ground. She glanced down the yard beyond to the clearing where the unfinished house stood. Its first row of packed stones was covered in long strands of dead weeds that seemed to have no end, and sturdy thistles reached high on its walls, bereft of a roof. ‘Waste of money and effort,’ she muttered. ‘Bring the basket, Elsa,’ she ordered, pushing open the door to the hut.
With the basket already in hand, Elsa decided she’d resisted the baked goods long enough. Hanging back just a little, she snuck a hand under the cloth, pinched off a small piece of fruit bun and popped it into her mouth, chewing delightedly, swallowing hurriedly before she reached the door to the hut.
But a lump of chewed bun stuck in her throat when she heard her sister wail.