Even though Curtis Goody was not the heavy, densely muscled man he had been before being stricken, the sisters had a hard time trying to take their father’s body from his bed to place him into the back of the cart.
Rosie had wailed afresh, and who could blame her? If only Elsa could wail out her grief too, but nothing came. The blow of George’s death had numbed her, but this—her father now dead—so soon after. She couldn’t take it in. Couldn’t work her mind around it.
She’d slumped by the bed watching Rosie, who’d been frantic, trying to wake their father. Of course nothing had worked. Of course not. Death was final, a hollow silence, an eerie space, which before had been filled with noisy life. Elsa had only been away from home perhaps three hours and in that time, life had left him, quick as that. Gone.
Had he minded dying on his own? Or had he waited until Elsa left so he could slip away by himself, resting his weary heart without disappointing those clinging to him and keeping him in this life? That was it—that was probably it. It was his time, and he’d just decided to go. But oh, that silence, that space.
The last weeks of his life had left him feebly coloured and now that life was gone, he was even a paler shade than before, tight-skinned and waxy. He was still warm to the touch—perhaps Rosie was right: he would soon wake. He looks like he needs a shave. Elsa would do that for him. Perhaps Elsa is going mad, thinks Elsa. Her mind was whirling in strange loops.
Now, with their father’s body covered in the cart and under the shade of a gum tree, they’d returned to the hut. In her own grief, she hadn’t taken any notice of her sister who seemed to be babbling. ‘… few minutes, only a few minutes, a few minutes more …’ and the repetition was beginning to sink in. Then Rosie was rushing from corner to corner of the hut, muttering, ‘Where would he put it?’ She pulled Elsa’s cot from the wall, upended the milking stool. Fiddled about in the disused butter churn. Swiped along the top of the rough homemade bricks of the mantel. Tipped up her father’s cot and peered under, sweeping a hand over the floorboards underneath. She flipped through the raggedy story books and old copies of The Bulletin from which Elsa had always read to her father (before he got bored with the same old stuff. They’d been too poor lately to buy more).
Rosie stood up and paced, scanning the rough walls and the scrappy ceiling. Elsa clutched her arm, stopped her for a moment. ‘Where would he put what? What are you looking for?’ She gazed around at the mess: there was an awful lot of straightening up she would have to do— Oh, what did that matter, now?
Rosie flung herself onto a small bench seat, one of a pair her father had fashioned so the family could perch and eat from a trestle table. Her hair was mussed, her cheeks had bright pink spots where colour bloomed and her nose was pinched.
‘Rosie?’ Elsa was still waiting.
‘Pa had buried a tin of money. It was full of sovereigns.’
Elsa stared, open-mouthed. ‘Full of sovereigns?’
‘At least thirty of them, he said.’ Rosie glanced at Elsa, it seemed without seeing her.
‘That’s a fortune,’ Elsa breathed.
‘Yes, it is,’ Rosie cried. ‘He was supposed to tell me where it was hidden when George took off on his adventure. George had to have known where it was, because he would have inherited after Pa’s death. But now both of them have gone—’ Rosie burst into fresh tears.
Shocked by the news, Elsa shot to her feet. ‘Where did he get such money?’ Her father might have told her about it. Should have told her. It would certainly have helped them.
‘He said he’d found it when he first bought the property. Whose ever it was, they’d been long since gone by that time.’
‘That’s astounding. No one missed thirty sovereigns?’
Bleary-eyed and waspish, Rosie said, ‘Clearly not, Elsa.’
‘I—have no knowledge of such a tin.’
‘Of course you wouldn’t,’ Rosie snapped. ‘Besides, what would you have done with it if you did know?’ She stood up again, rubbing her chafed hands together.
Elsa spun around, anger flaring. ‘But what would you do with it, sister? Give it to that lump of a husband of yours?’
Rosie turned on her. ‘No. I was going to leave him with his bakery. Let him do the work for a change.’
Elsa’s mouth dropped open again. ‘Leave Frank?’
‘I was going to get the tin and run from here. Go far away and start my life again, venture out of this dying place to find somewhere exciting. Somewhere I could breathe again and live my life.’ Flattening her hands on the table, she leaned on it and seemed out of breath.
‘And so—leave me?’ Elsa was incredulous. ‘Leave me penniless?’
‘Oh no,’ Rosie cried, gaping in horror. ‘Do you suppose George took it with him and it’s now in the hands of the bushrangers?’
Obviously, Rosie’s issue had nothing to do with Elsa’s indignation. But this was her big sister talking. This was a woman she’d always looked up to—not necessarily had liked all the time but had certainly looked up to. ‘I’d say so. George was the sort to have spent it, not kept it or kept it hidden.’
Rosie held her head and grimaced. ‘That’s true, the silly boy.’ They all thought of George as a boy, no matter that he was older than Elsa by two years. ‘Perhaps that’s why he was murdered. He might have flashed the coin around—that would undoubtedly attract attention.’ She exhaled. ‘I’ll leave. You don’t have to come. I don’t need you.’ Her tone was sharp.
At forty, Rosie was part of a world Elsa had not yet begun to explore. The baby of the family, Elsa had been protected by three older brothers and the firstborn Rosie, and never dreamed she would be left behind—by all of them as it was turning out.
‘What—you’d really do that? Abandon me? Had you found the tin of coins earlier, where would you have put me, or sent me?’ Elsa heard her voice become shrill. ‘And now, with our father dead, where am I to go? You still have Frank if you stay—’
‘Oh, I don’t know what I mean,’ Rosie shrilled. ‘Damn and blast Frank.’ She waved her arm around the room: ‘Are there any other hiding places here? We have to be sure.’
Elsa spread her hands, confounded by all of this. It was all wrong. George was dead, her father was dead—his body going cold in the cart—her sister had gone mad and now there was nowhere left for her to go. She would be told to move on if Frank really did take over administration of the property—which of course he was legally able to do.
Springing out of her stupor, Elsa checked under her bed for any loose boards. Squeezing her arm behind the old cooker she felt for anything wedged in behind it. She dragged out the pine box that had been their pantry cupboard and looked behind that. Nothing. Hands on hips, she checked around. There was no place to hide a tin. The rafters were open to the poor roof, so there were no hidey-holes there. Besides, why would he leave it here if he was going off on his adventure? ‘He’s taken it with him, I’m sure of it.’
‘You haven’t looked very far,’ Rosie said.
‘You haven’t looked at all.’
‘It could be anywhere,’ Rosie muttered. ‘But I think you’re right. He would’ve taken it with him.’ She frowned. ‘What about the broken-down horse stall?’
Elsa gritted her teeth and marched outside to the stall, Rosie on her heels. ‘In you go,’ her sister said.
Careful no rotting roof timbers there fell on her head, Elsa scrambled around in the dirt, and came up with nothing. Brushing aside thick cobweb, she said, ‘Short of digging up the whole yard, what else do you suggest?’ She heard her voice rise to shrill. No, no, no. What was she doing? She pushed past Rosie and headed back towards the hut.
Inside, she dusted off, annoyed with herself. What were they doing? Good Lord. Their father was dead. There was something far more pressing to do. ‘Rosie, wait.’ She held up her hand. ‘Wait,’ she said more calmly. ‘We have to plan, yes, but first we have to get Pa to a coffin maker, get him buried properly without folk accusing us of a terrible thing.’ Elsa knew the ramifications of all this was still a jumble.
‘What terrible thing?’ Rosie asked, looking frightened.
‘Rosie, what if people say we had done something to Pa for this tin of coins? Does anyone know? Does Frank know?’
‘I don’t know, I don’t know.’ Rosie clamped her hands together. ‘No, Frank doesn’t know, I’m sure of it and don’t be ridiculous. We wouldn’t kill our own father for it.’ And then understanding dawned. ‘Oh, my God.’
‘You see, don’t you? We must be very quiet about this tin. We must ask Frank for the money to bury our poor pa—’
Rosie wailed yet again.
‘—and then plan …’ Elsa rubbed her face hard with both hands and swiped them into her hair, dislodging more from its loose plait. Impatient, she swiped at the thick, unruly locks. ‘We must find that tin and hide it anew. If Frank does know of it, we must claim ignorance. He must not find it.’ Elsa’s mind was working fast. She knew their land was so small that it wouldn’t bring much if they were to put it up for sale. And Frank would still have the right to administer their affairs if their father had named him. ‘We could just sell up.’ Her heart sunk at the thought.
Rosie shook her head. ‘The whole district would go for a song these days, why would this patch of worthless scrub be any different? You know the Robe port is all but dead. People are abandoning their farms, their homes and their businesses.’
‘Frank wouldn’t abandon your business.’
‘He might if he knew about the gold coins.’ Rosie seemed annoyed when Elsa shook her head in disbelief. She went on, ‘If he closed the bakery, he would expect me to go with him wherever he went.’ She held her head as if it pained her. ‘But I don’t want to be married to him any longer. I don’t want to be his wife.’ It was another wail, one probably borne out of years of thought.
‘How can you not want it? There’s no solution to that, is there?’
‘I could divorce. All the more reason for me to find the tin.’
‘Oh, Rosie. What grounds for divorce do you have? He has to be proven guilty of cruelty, or desertion or adultery. And we know he has provided for you—even if you’re the one doing all the work. No magistrate would release you.’
Elsa had read enough newspapers; she knew of the terrible scandals divorce created. All the same, she couldn’t see that there was much going for marriage. Just look at her sister: so unhappy that she would plan such a desperate move as to run away from everything she knew and risk her life by being alone in the world. A fallen woman is how she would be labelled. Hers would not be a happy or a safe life and yet Rosie was prepared to forgo all of it. What sort of turmoil drove that? Divorce was terribly frowned upon, and a woman who instigated it would be almost untouchable afterwards. She despaired for Rosie.
It irked Elsa though, that Rosie would choose to abandon her, too. She would have to look after herself. If her only sister could forsake her for a tin of coins, who on earth could Elsa trust now but herself?