By the time Elsa had made it to the cookhouse, a new dawn was streaking golden shafts of light over the horizon. She hoped she hadn’t wakened the whole household as she’d swung herself along on the crutches down the short hallway. Outside, she got to the privy then headed in to stir up the coals for some tea. All very awkward, but at least she was mobile.
She wondered about trying to saddle up Salty and get on her way alone, but it was only a fleeting thought. Attempting that with her foot out of action would just be silly—it was struggle enough getting through her ablutions. After a hot and restless night, sleep had eventually come, although her thoughts, insistent and repetitive, vexed her. She didn’t want an attraction to any man, not now, and especially not to a man who thought her reckless with his children. She’d kept going over and over the situation with the trooper, and the shock of finding Gracie behind her on the verandah.
She checked the water level in the kettle and then sat back to try and get her hair into some sort of order. Gracie hadn’t appeared yet, and Elsa didn’t want to have to wait if the girl was going to take her time. No sooner had she untangled the first ribbon of hair than the kitchen door was opened.
Ezekiel Jones stood in the doorway, shirt open a little and haphazardly tucked in at the waist, trousers buttoned, socks on his feet. His cheeks and chin had the darkened shadows of day-old bristles. His dark hair framed a serious face, and his eyebrows had a quizzical twist. But his eyes … His gaze made her heart race. Just like it had before sleep finally came last night. Thanks to him, a breathlessness was with her again. ‘Morning,’ she croaked, or thought she did, her voice whisked away.
Gracie darted inside, pushed around her father and ran behind Elsa’s chair. ‘I’ll do it,’ she cried, and plunged her hands into Elsa’s hair. ‘I brought the brush. It’s in my pinny pocket. Good morning, Miss Goody,’ she said and ducked her face around to give Elsa a toothy grin.
‘Morning, Gracie,’ Elsa managed. ‘I have the kettle on for tea.’ Then she said to Ezekiel, ‘Then I’d like to be on my way.’
‘Hmm.’ He stepped inside the kitchen and headed for the stove, reaching up for the tea caddy on the mantel.
‘Oh,’ Gracie said, standing behind her and sounding annoyed, her hands tangling in Elsa’s hair. ‘It’s fallen out of what I did yesterday. I’ll have to start all over again.’ She didn’t sound that disappointed.
After a moment, Elsa felt the brush and Gracie began long downward strokes, tugging through the thick waves. ‘Gracie, perhaps I could do it myself. I’m sure you’d have chores to do.’
‘Not yet, Miss Goody. Have to have our tea first,’ she answered, working steadily.
Elsa winced a little at Gracie’s fervor. She glanced at Ezekiel. ‘I’m ready to leave as soon as Gracie is done. Jonty told me that George is buried a little way up the hill so I should be able to find it. I’d only need help to pack the horse, and to mount.’ She had to stop her voice shaking. She took a breath. ‘I also need whatever else you found of my brother’s.’
‘Hmm.’ He’d murmured again. He drew down three tin cups.
‘Oh, Miss Goody, this is a mess,’ Gracie said, matter-of-fact, still pulling through Elsa’s hair with the big brush.
Looking up, Elsa caught Ezekiel’s eye. He seemed amused by his daughter’s claim, but content to have her continue. Elsa felt heat rise in her chest again.
Her restless sleep had done nothing for what was left of Gracie’s previous attempt at a plait. Elsa should have re-wound her own hair for the night, but it was the last thing on her mind. Time and time again thoughts of Ezekiel Jones had hovered over all rational thought. Despite his growling about Gracie being with her on the verandah under the trooper’s threat, the thrum of his presence glowed inside her, and those wicked thrills that made her squirm in secret delight had descended on her and hadn’t let up.
She had rarely been taken by a good-looking face, or a knowing smile, but she recognised the feelings clearly enough—the same type when Henry Benson looked at her. Not that he had caused her this much pleasant discomfort—her response to Ezekiel Jones was more the look of the man, not being looked at by the man. This was anticipation of seeing him, of waiting for the hum and throb in her belly as she heard his voice, or for the sweet warmth to tingle between her legs as she watched him move. And how her heart had gladdened when he’d crushed his little girl to him yesterday, at how he kissed his boys before their bed. How, at one point, she swore his gaze had glinted when she’d spoken to him.
How she’d fled to bed before she started to stammer in conversation and began to flutter. How girlish. How ridiculous. I am sensible Elsa. I am capable farm-girl Elsa. I am suffragist Elsa. I am not a debutante, not a schoolgirl.
She had a job to do and that was to get whatever belongings of George’s were here and get back to Rosie who was still with that other Jones brother in his poor camp. To find a solicitor. To take ownership of—or run from—the farm. She would think about a livelihood and her survival after she’d made it back to Robe, or elsewhere in South Australia, to vote. What would come after that, she didn’t know, but she would not stay here a moment longer and be subject to her … fancy whims about a man with a devilish, dark gleam in his eye.
She felt her face bloom now at the thought, and even though she was staring at his broad and straight back as he made tea, surely when he turned, he’d be able to read it for what it was. The sooner she was out of his way, the better, and that made her heart pound harder. She let a breath go. She hadn’t realised she’d been holding it.
‘Your tea, Miss Goody,’ he said and slid a pannikin in front of her.
‘Thank you.’ Elsa, not able to look at him, just took up the cup and blew in it to cool down the brew.
Gracie was still resolutely tugging the brush.
He leaned back on the bench under the window. Elsa could only see his long solid legs, crossed at the ankles, the flap of his partly untucked shirt hanging over his trousers. The belt at his waist.
‘I have tinned milk somewhere,’ he said.
‘Up by the candles, Pa,’ Gracie said, dragging doggedly.
‘I take it black, all the same,’ Elsa said. ‘We haven’t had a cow for milking for some years. I’m quite used to taking my tea without milk.’ She glanced at him.
‘Hmm.’ His gaze was on her, steady, unmoving.
Her heart thumped and she looked away, trying to concentrate on the fine-looking mantel over the squat iron cooker.
‘Did you do the milking, Miss Goody?’ Gracie rested a moment, letting the long drape of hair fall down Elsa’s back.
‘And the butter churning, and the shepherding—when we had sheep—and the skinning of the rabbits. Then I had to set the traps, too, when—’ She stopped. She was running away with herself, her speech rapid and breathless. Ridiculous.
‘So, a true farmer’s daughter,’ Ezekiel said.
‘For the most part, I was the farmer,’ she said, noticing he’d folded his arms and was studying her. She looked at her hands, the palms stained with the land, the backs of them weathered, her nails short, discoloured. She dropped them to her lap, out of sight. For heaven’s sake, why be conscious of that now?
‘Although you don’t sound like a farmer, I believe you,’ he said, his tone light.
‘I was,’ she said, annoyed that perhaps he was making fun of her. ‘My father had been ill for some time, and George was really not that interested in the farm. He was always off exploring, he’d say. I’d always worked the land. Someone had to.’ It would be too easy to rattle on, to have a lovely conversation when really, she needed to get going. She needed to drink some tea. She blew some more and ventured a couple of sips. Nearly cool enough.
‘I believe it. I can see you are strong and natural in your disposition, as if used to hard physical work.’
Oh. Am I not ladylike in my appearance? Hackles rose. He was nothing if not forthright. She looked down at her dress, spot-cleaned, old and faded. Seeing it anew, she felt an unfamiliar dismay creep into her.
Gracie resumed a while, then sighed, pocketed the brush and tried to begin the plait. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘I’ve brushed and brushed so much, now it’s too slippery for my hands,’ she said. ‘Pa, you’ll have to do it like you do it for me.’
Startled, Elsa shook her head. ‘Oh, that’s not—’
‘Gracie, why don’t you go see if everyone else is up. I need to talk to Miss Goody for a while.’
‘Pa does hair real good, Miss Goody,’ Gracie said, smiling broadly. ‘Here’s the brush and the tie.’ She put them on the table and took off for the house.
Elsa put her hands to her hair. ‘Really, there’s no need for you to do it, I can manage. Gracie just seemed to want to help so much, that I—’
‘No trouble.’ He pushed off the bench, his gaze on her. ‘First, I now know that Gracie took it upon herself to stand by you on the verandah. I must offer you an apology.’
Under the intense scrutiny, Elsa felt the rush of colour again. No point hanging on to it. ‘Accepted.’
‘Good. I can get on with the plait.’
She protested again. ‘It would be, um, unseemly for you—’ She stopped short. Good God, Elsa. What is this ladylike rubbish—unseemly? This whole jaunt since leaving the farm was unseemly. More tea, more tea. She sipped again, swallowed, but it was too hot.
‘Not in my household. I’m both father and mother to my children, so I’ve learned to do a few things that a woman would do, like my daughter’s hair. Besides, there’s no one to see me making a plait, so it’s no bother to me,’ he said. ‘My brothers would think it a great lark.’
‘Perhaps Mrs Hartman would do it for me?’
‘The children are not to wake her. She’s been through enough in the last couple of days.’ He paused. ‘As have we all.’ She felt him take up the weight of her hair in his hands as he stood behind her. Shivers fled across her chest. ‘Gracie and I learned to do hers, together,’ he said. ‘I’m sure I could be of some use here, as long as you don’t mind simple and tidy.’
Elsa was transfixed. No man had touched her hair, ever. Those hands of his, the ones she’d stared at and wondered about, were in her hair. Strangely captivated by that, it made her a little light-headed. It was foreign. Exciting. Good. Too good. The warm tingle on her scalp, the glowing rush of sensation down both of her arms … Her belly tightened.
As he separated three thick strands to make the plait, his fingers brushed her neck. Innocuous, a nothing touch, but her nipples squeezed and her secret place tightened. Every so often he tugged a little harder as he braided—how good that felt—and his fingers worked more magic. Never, never, never. Never had she believed there were sensations like this. The things he aroused in her …
He stopped, and so did her breathing. She felt the plait being examined. ‘Hmm. Now,’ he said and resumed his handiwork, ‘I’ll be accompanying you to Nebo’s camp.’
Her heart gave a jolt of a different sort. What? ‘That’s not necessary, either.’ She half turned towards him.
‘I think it is.’ He took her head and gently turned her back. ‘I’ll either convince Nebo to come here and wait for this crook to be caught or convince Nebo to stay where he is until I let him know it’s safe. Either way, I’ll have to warn him, and even then, sometimes my brother doesn’t know what’s good for him.’
‘I can warn him without—’
‘And besides, it’s not safe for you to be travelling by yourself with that fella out there.’
‘Surely, in broad daylight there’ll be no issue.’ She took a good swallow of tea, pushed aside the memory of bushrangers bailing up a stagecoach in broad daylight.
Minor point.
He tugged a little. Turned the plait again. When he continued, his fingers grazed between her shoulder blades, warm and light. She felt it even through the fabric of her dress. He worked steadily, his knuckles skimming her back lightly as the plait grew. Acutely aware of him, she felt every minute scrape, every tiny stroke. Even imagined a linger of a touch when perhaps there was none. She squeezed her eyes shut. How was she going to sit still, or breathe, until he’d finished? When had this sensible farm girl, the woman she was, become such a dithery, twittery wreck?
‘I’ll be coming with you,’ he said quietly. The fingers continued, plaiting and tugging. ‘We’ll ride for the camp after you’ve visited the gravesite. Your sister would be worried for you.’
The dithers and twitters continued. ‘But—what about the safety of your children?’
‘Jude is here, and Mrs Hartman.’ Then he barked a laugh. ‘Though I suspect she’d defend the place all on her own.’ His fingers worked deftly. A touch of his hand tingled the hollow down her spine.
Why did it feel like it was just for her? Another shiver scooted along her arms and into her chest. Oh, don’t be so silly, Elsa. Every twist of his hands working the plait was only confident ownership of a simple task, nothing more. But—even sure he would be feeling nothing like she was feeling—it was much more than simple. It was as if he’d stroked her, as if she was taking illicit pleasure in something she couldn’t name. She hummed inside and held the secret of his touch close.
‘And if your directions are as clear as you say,’ he went on, ‘I’ll be back here by dark, and you’ll be with your sister, preparing for home.’
Sharply brought out of her dreamy haze, she knew there was nothing to say to that. Anyway, his hands were nearing her lower back and showing no signs of stopping, and nor did she want him to. Thank God he is oblivious to my nonsense. This can’t be proper. Her face burned all over again at that. First of all, a man fixing her hair, a man she barely knows. And—touching her, accidentally, of course, not by design, not the way Pete Southie had pawed her. But touching her, the feather-light scrapes and brushes of his fingertips and knuckles teasing their path down her back—
‘Nearly finished.’ His breath was on her neck as he bent forward. ‘Hand me the tie, would you?’
Groping on the table for the piece of calico ribbon, she held it up to him as he handed her the end of the long plait. She watched as he tied it off with the strip of fabric, winding the long wide ribbon around the end of her hair. He knotted it and swung it behind her, letting it drop softly on her back. ‘All done,’ he said.
Her breath came back, but her heartbeat continued to gallop. ‘Thank you.’
‘Pleasure,’ he said, and his gaze held hers for a moment.
Then he smiled, and his face transformed—
‘Oh, I knew you’d have it finished, Pa,’ Gracie said, a little disappointed as she burst back inside. She ran to Elsa and took the heavy plait in her hand. ‘It’s very fine, Miss Goody.’ Admiring her father’s handiwork, she said, ‘One day I’ll be able to do your hair just as good.’
One day? Elsa only said, ‘Oh,’ and took up her cup of tea. She put a hand on the plait, felt it for herself, but it left her—bereft. The hypnotic feeling of his hands on her hair had vanished, leaving nothing but a merciless need to have them in her hair again.
Ezekiel said, ‘Gracie, tell the boys I want them to hitch Milo to Mrs Hartman’s cart, saddle Salty, and tie him on side.’
Gracie stood for a moment, eyeing her patient father. Then she turned her attention to Elsa. ‘You will come back again, won’t you, Miss Goody, after you’ve found Uncle Nebo?’
‘I’m sure she will in due course,’ Ezekiel answered.
‘Oh, that would be so grand.’ Gracie’s small strong hands squeezed Elsa’s before she shot off again.
‘I don’t think I will be back,’ Elsa said to him, a frown deepening. ‘That wasn’t fair to tell her that.’
He acknowledged that and shrugged a little. ‘She’s my daughter, I know her well. I’ll explain to her when the time is right.’ He peered into her near-empty cup and took it from her to the washbowl. ‘She has enjoyed your being here.’
‘All the more reason not to get …’ Elsa floundered for her words. Get her hopes up? Whose hopes, Elsa Goody?
‘She understands that things change, that they come and go.’ He hesitated, and gave her a rueful smile. ‘Disappointment can come later.’ Then he brightened a little. ‘It’s just nice for now, to see her happy and smiling.’ He picked up her crutches and held them out. ‘After you.’
Elsa found it easier to move today and, swinging along, was glad that she’d soon be on her way and nearing the end of this part of the journey. She wasn’t looking any further forward, just wanted to be away from—him, and leaving behind her bewildering feelings for him and his family.
The day was cooler, though she could feel her face and neck dampen with the effort on the crutches. Spying the cart already harnessed, she cheered up and headed for it. They’d soon be underway.
Just as she got there, Jonty flew off the verandah and rushed into her, clutching her about the legs and burying his screwed-up face in her skirt. ‘Don’t go, don’t gooo,’ he wailed so loudly, the dogs started up their barking.
Staggering a little, she juggled the crutches, dropping one to hug the boy. She steadied and stood holding him as his snivels and sobs muffled into her. His sturdy little body was shaking with his distress.
‘Stay with meee,’ he howled, and his head came up as he pleaded tearfully with her. Then he buried it again, sobbing hard.
Her heart squeezed and her arm tightened about him. She looked across as Giff stood nearby, shock etched on his face, staring at his little brother. When he glanced at her, he looked worried, as if he needed to say something, as if he too didn’t want her to go.
Gracie was standing alongside him, her eyes wide, her mouth open.
Ezekiel was rooted to the spot. ‘Jonty.’
Elsa held the boy, rubbed his wiry back. Bent a little more, trying to soothe him. She murmured, ‘Jonty, I have to go to my brother. You want me to do that, don’t you?’
‘Nooo. He went awa-ay, tooo.’
His head came up and the twisted little lips and the reddened eyes flooded with tears rocked her heart. She held on to him, wanting to cry with him. For him. For George.
Ezekiel stepped closer. ‘Jonty.’
‘I want a mama,’ Jonty wept, and his grip tightened on her dress. ‘Be my mama.’
Elsa shot a look at Ezekiel, mortified that the boy called on her for something she couldn’t give, that he clung so desperately to her.
Ezekiel barely glanced at her. ‘Jonty, come along, boy.’
Despite his father’s encouragement, Jonty didn’t let go until Ezekiel gently picked him up under the arms and took him from Elsa. He set him down, held him by one shoulder and squatted so he was eye to eye. Then he brushed the tears from Jonty’s face with large, gentle hands. He cupped the boy’s head, his gaze roving over him, as if he was drawing in the wonder of his little son. His other hand swept tenderly over the messy thatch of Jonty’s hair, back and forth, until the boy was comforted.
Elsa swallowed the cry that came to her lips. That such open feeling was on display from a big, sun-browned man, whose eyes glistened as his callused hands held his bonny child, who listened attentively to the plaintive sobs—it nearly brought her undone. She had never seen such a thing, not from her father—for her, or for any of her siblings. She’d been right in her estimation of Ezekiel Jones. Here was a man who’d known deep sorrow himself, and the depthless grief of his family. Felt emotion keenly and expressed it, with dignity and courage. And that opened the tightly kept, aged hollow inside her and swept it away. As warmth and light flooded in, she held fast for fear that a cry would still escape.
Jonty’s blubbers withdrew to hiccups, and he bit his quivering lip, his wet eyes blinking at his father.
‘We must be brave, lad,’ Ezekiel said quietly, his dark eyes creased as he smiled a little, his whiskered jaw sharply contrasted to the smooth cheeks of his son. ‘Miss Elsa has to go.’
The boy’s bottom lip came out again. ‘I doan wanna be brave.’
‘I know, but it’s best to try.’ Ezekiel cupped his boy’s head again. ‘Giff?’ Giff shot forward and slipped his hand around Jonty’s. ‘Stay with Jonty now until we’re gone then take him with you and let the dogs off for a while.’ Giff nodded.
Jonty’s bottom lip remained jutted forward. ‘Bring her back,’ he demanded, man to man.
Ezekiel stood and smoothed the boy’s hair again. It seemed to Elsa, his jaw tight, his chin to his chest, that he couldn’t answer.
She was grateful that Gracie had gone to gather her belongings. The girl held Elsa’s other boot, and it dangled from her hand by the laces. ‘I’ll put this with your satchel, Miss Goody,’ she’d said quietly over Jonty’s gulping, and had marched past her brothers to the cart, dropping the boot over the side. Then she marched back to them and only lifted a hand to wave goodbye.
They left to the rousing chorus of three excited dogs. As they passed the back shed, Ezekiel roared at them to shut up, and except for one last yap, silence descended.
Elsa was grateful also to be sitting alongside Ezekiel in the driver’s seat, and not mounted on Salty, trying to keep her sore foot in the stirrup. Or worse, stuck in the back of the cart alongside all Mrs Hartman’s garden implements like some hefty sack of mulch.
Conversation was patchy. Elsa didn’t broach Jonty’s reaction. His children were not her affair, after all, but she couldn’t help feeling for them; they’d all touched her heart.
‘Are those working dogs?’ she asked when the barks had stopped.
‘Kelpies.’
‘I haven’t heard of that breed,’ Elsa said.
‘Been around a little while now, smartest dog there is. One of them, Bizzy, belongs to Jude.’ Then he gave her a smile. ‘Best farm workers.’ Then looking dead ahead again, and clicking the reins, he said, ‘Weather might hold.’
‘Yes.’ She glanced at the sky. Cloudy but not yet ready to rain.
It seemed a companionable silence for the most part after that. Only a short time later, he slowed the cart. She took a deep breath and adjusted her hat, pulling it a little lower over her face as the timber crosses appeared, signalling the gravesite. Her stomach lurched. A day of high emotion. Ezekiel hadn’t said much more since leaving his house, and she wondered again how Jonty’s cries might have affected him. Still, visiting this place would have a sombre effect on anyone.
Towering over the site was a massive gum tree, majestic, wide and strong, clearly one that had stood sentinel here for a long time. It would have seen drought, and fire—parts of its thick, broad trunk were blackened—howling wind and driving rain, for sure. It stood proud and alone on its grassy knoll, ravaged by the elements, and above the pale golden plains that flattened wide around it.
She’d watched it on the horizon. Now as they drew closer, she took deep and silent breaths else she feared the tears would well and plop on her cheeks, that her face would screw up, that her control would evaporate and she’d bawl her lungs out. For this would be the tree Ezekiel had written of.
He lies by a great eucalypt …
‘I’ll help you down, tend the other graves till you’re ready to leave,’ Ezekiel said and pulled up. He let Milo’s reins dangle as he climbed out of the driver’s seat and strode around to her side, where he reached into the back of the cart for her crutches. He leaned them on the cart and turned to her, holding out a hand.
To keep from falling into a weepy heap at the sight of the graves, to stop herself from breaking, she got on to the edge of the seat and stood carefully on her good foot. But she couldn’t think for the life of her how to get down from the cart.
He reached up, big hands spread across her waist and lifted her down, as if it were long practised. She settled on one foot, her hands slipping from his shoulders to hang on to his arms. No thoughts rushed through her, but her belly filled with wild swoops at the warmth of him. When she steadied, he handed her the crutches and she put them in place.
‘All set,’ he said. He took a pace or two with her, a hand hovering at her elbow until she found her rhythm. Then he tipped his hat. ‘I’ll just be over there.’ He pointed at the other two crosses.
She could not trust her voice to speak, only nodded her thanks. She looked at the wooden cross at the head of George’s grave, vaguely aware of Ezekiel’s footfalls as he walked away over leaf litter and twigs. A hum of blowflies passed her, a buzz of one close to her face. She tried to blow it away, reached up to swipe at it, unbalanced a little. Steadied.
The cross was simple. As she neared, she could see that someone—most probably Ezekiel—had etched her brother’s name and his date of death on it. Barely a month gone. She’d seemed to have lost track of time. Suddenly, her throat scraped raw with her voice, as if the pain of grief was articulate, not put to words, yet not denied expression. The sound of it must have reached Ezekiel.
‘You all right?’ he called.
Still struggling to be quiet, she turned and nodded briefly, turned back and hung, stricken, over the crutches. Without them she would have sunk to the dirt and been unable to help herself upright again.
George. George.
The voice was hers. But her father’s echoed over it. That brought more pain. Here, now, her throat tight, her chest demanding air, Elsa knew her grief opened the wound she’d tried to stitch closed far too early. She couldn’t see George in her mind, she couldn’t hear him, but she felt his presence. She stared down at the mound of dirt, at the cheeky sprouts of weeds dotting it, at the odd pebbles that were strewn across the patted-down earth, at the simple etching of his name in the wood …
She sank to her knees then, the pain too much, the crutches falling from her grip.
Ezekiel was by her side, on his haunches, his voice soft. ‘Let me.’ He took her hand, held her, let her claw her way back to her feet. He tucked a crutch under her arm, retrieved the other for her, rested his hand over hers. ‘He slipped away peacefully. There were no last words, no last-minute wishes.’
She felt the rasp of callused skin and the hard, warm fingers of his hand. Elsa gulped noisy breaths as much because of his words about George, as for the touch of his hand.
‘There were no last memories coming from him, no nothing. He just slipped away.’ Ezekiel had risen with her, steadied her. ‘He did talk when Nebo first brought him home, about you and your sister. Mostly you, and the rest was delirium, I would say, although Gracie said he talked of your mother.’ When she looked at him, Ezekiel nodded. ‘He cried for her, as a boy in deep pain would. Giff might have heard a word or something, he’s never said, but there was only one thing I heard that was clear. I’m not sure how coherent it was. He said “we’ll save the farm”, and then “it’s in the dirt”, but after that he wasn’t really conscious again.’
Sniffing, wiping her nose on the back of her hand, Elsa said, ‘He must have been feverish. The farm is nothing but dirt, barren now.’ She sighed, and a little more composed, said, ‘Please, continue to tend to your wife and your son’s graves. I’m all right.’
His voice cracked. ‘Who told you it’s my son?’
‘Jonty. He told me where I could find George, beside his mother and his brother. He said the graves were close.’
‘Young Jonty amazes me,’ Ezekiel said. He pinched his nostrils. ‘Buried there is my last son. Born and then died not two days later. Healthy, it seemed, at first, and not a long or hard labour for my wife.’ He shook his head, as if bewildered still.
‘And your wife—what did she die of?’
‘An aneurysm of the brain, they said. Not long after the baby.’
Emotion, that was not her right to have, surged inside her. Blinking hard, she shifted her weight, easing her good leg. She swung on the crutches to stand in front of the graves, the larger mound for his wife, whose cross bore her name, MAISIE JONES, her date of birth and date of death. She had only been twenty-eight.
The smaller cross was bare. ‘What’s your son’s name?’ she cried. ‘His cross is not marked.’ She took a breath, astonished to be so rude, so judging.
For a moment he seemed caught off guard. ‘I had to bury him without—’ He took a breath. ‘Maisie couldn’t bear to name him.’
Elsa watched as he stared at the little mound. Then he put the fingers of both hands to his forehead as if he had a terrible pain. She knew that feeling, that taut band, the dry ache in the temples that thudded without ease. Grief.
‘And did you name him?’ she asked, surprised she’d even spoken the words.
He looked at her, his dark eyes bloodshot and bleary, as if he struggled to contain a deep reaction. He lifted his head a moment. ‘He is Xavier. Maisie never knew that I named him. She just couldn’t bear talking about it.’
‘Will you write his name on his cross?’ Elsa couldn’t bear thinking the little grave would remain unmarked.
Raising his eyebrows, he looked at the grave, anew. ‘I will,’ he said.
In her mind’s eye, Elsa could see Sal rocking her dead babe. She hoped she’d named the little girl. She hoped they’d buried her in a good place. She hoped, she hoped—she just wanted to get back to her sister. Hug her. Hug her tight.
There were so many things she didn’t know. Rosie, who so desperately wanted a child, would have bought one from a baby farmer. Elsa herself, who had never thought of her own babies, only those of the animals she’d tended—was that a strange thing?—thought of Sal, whose dead infant had been held tight to her chest, not allowing anyone else to take the little body. And now, this man’s wife—giving birth and having the baby die only days later—the suffering she would have endured.
‘I don’t think your wife would mind now that you name him,’ Elsa said.
How dare she say such a thing? She could barely comprehend the anguish. All very well to watch a cow grieve, or to watch another woman grieve. But never knowing, never experiencing that loss herself … how could she speak for another? And what of a man’s grieving? Men, who think they shouldn’t show emotion. Wally had seemed so stoic, even gruff, but was he only paralysed by grief, not just charged by society to never show it? It must have been gut-wrenching, destroying. She could not begin to—
‘Not now, she wouldn’t,’ Ezekiel agreed. He rubbed his nose, sniffed loudly, pulled his hat lower over his eyes, and turned away from the graves. ‘But back then? She minded. Maisie hadn’t wanted him.’