Close to tears again, Elsa tried hard not to think of what Ezekiel might’ve felt when her last letter landed in his hands. There’d been no answer from him but what else should she expect—she’d broken her own heart, so what must her letter have done to him?
Rosie had reached out and gripped her hand in both of hers. At first Elsa thought her sister had been about to show some heart. ‘It’s for the best, Elsa,’ she’d said. ‘For me,’ she added matter-of-fact. ‘No one must know the baby’s real father, not only of the disgrace for me, but also for the child if it were to be known.’ Rosie wanted Elsa to look at her, had tried to move into her line of sight, but Elsa pulled her hand away. Always about Rosie. ‘And you do know we couldn’t survive without you, don’t you?’ Elsa only nodded. Still more nervous, Rosie had asked, ‘You won’t leave, will you?’
Trying to muster a smile, glancing at Rosie over her shoulder, Elsa had said brightly, ‘Of course not.’
The mornings had been the hardest of all, getting up in the wee small hours and toiling in the bakery with nothing but the roar of the heating ovens to break the silence in her head and heart. In those hours, thoughts of life at Casterton with Ezekiel and the children crowded in over the top of the dough proving for bread, over the dried fruit plumping for the buns, over the spreading of jam in thick swathes … (One thing had happily occurred—her buns no longer looked like cowpats.) Then she’d go upstairs and try to stay awake to get Rosie up and about, with tea, and something to entice her to eat.
Her sister had lately begun to feel better for she woke ready to chatter, ready to give orders and finally ready to do a little work. That was a good thing, because Elsa’s steps had begun to slow, and life appeared only burdensome. When the day was done, Elsa would climb to her room above the bakery and sink into the mattress, exhausted. What hope had ever looked like for a future with Ezekiel was well extinguished, and her sorrow couldn’t be relieved under the heavy curtain of fatigue. Her last thoughts before sleep were that she really had to lift her spirits. She wasn’t a maudlin person.
One day not long ago, Rosie had been in the bakery surveying the baskets of fragrant breads and the pastries in their display cabinets. ‘You have developed a knack for this, Elsa, but oh dear, I do wish you’d look after yourself better. Whatever will the customers think?’
Elsa smoothed wayward locks back to her haphazardly put together bun. ‘In that case, perhaps if you’re feeling well enough, you’d look after the shop while I have a sleep for an hour or so.’
‘Yes, all right, but do it after lunchtime. I have to go down the street myself this morning.’ She looked very healthy and stood there protectively cupping her belly. She’d taken to doing that when she thought no one was looking. It was a good thing for her to be happy about her coming baby.
Rosie had returned and Elsa had taken a nap. Her sister had let her sleep for an hour in the afternoon each couple of days since then.
Today was the day they’d leave the farm behind; no more talk of working the land. Elsa had only been able to visit the farm from time to time anyway since arriving back, and now the land had been leased to a farmer from the next section. Elsa took it in her stride; she’d continue to live with Rosie in the small residence over the bakery.
She’d woken to Rosie holding her hand.
‘Is everything all right?’ Elsa struggled to sit, groggy with sleep.
‘I realised I’ve never said thank you for all you do, Elsa.’
Peering at her sister, Elsa wondered if she was feeling unwell. She swung her stockinged feet to the floor and reached for her work boots. She’d head for the farm with Peppin and the cart for one last time. ‘I’m sure you have, Rosie.’
‘You must know that I never meant to hurt you, even though my situation might have caused that.’
Was her sister becoming soft? Well, that wouldn’t hurt.
Rosie had gripped her hand again. ‘I’ve been a selfish and shrill woman all my life. Oh, I’ve certainly heard myself lately, don’t worry, but I realise how happy this baby makes me. I am aware, though, that my happiness is at the expense of yours, and for that I’m sorry. And I’m sorry you—haven’t yet heard from Mr Jones.’ She’d looked very worried still, even furtive, but that was Rosie.
Elsa gently shook her off; it was too hard to dwell on that. Before she lost the ability to summon her voice, she said, ‘I must get to the farm. I’ll be back by tea. I hope the store isn’t too busy for you until then.’
After deciding to lease the farm—they could only get a pittance and Elsa had already signed the lease papers—the bakery was all they had to keep them going for now. But once again, Rosie had changed her mind and was all for getting rid of that, too. Elsa couldn’t keep up, she just plodded along.
Out at the farm, clutching one of Rosie’s shawls about her shoulders, Elsa looked around the dusty yards of their property. Rain had come and gone. It was another cloudless day, and now the cool drift of early spring swirled on the sea breeze.
Standing in the paddocks of home, she inhaled a deep breath of fresh air. Elsa would miss the farm, despite how much extra work it added. It would be hard to leave the place of her childhood, and where her parents and her brothers lay. Leased or not, no matter what, she’d still come here to visit the graves.
The graves. She shook off a strange sensation, as if in her mind she’d heard an echo and couldn’t make it out. Just her nerves jangling—all this planning, changing the plans, the fatigue, the waiting. That was the worst. What would Ezekiel’s reaction have been, if he had answered? She was anxious for mail, waiting for his letter to arrive, telling her that he understood and forgave her. Telling her anything. If he chose to write.
Elsa turned, heartsore, and walked inside the family’s old house, hugging the shawl against the crisp air. She picked up the milking stool, rested it against the wall of the hut and sat down. The kettle was still on the cooker, but the oven was cold. The hutch was empty, clean, and the one remaining pot hung from a nail in the wall nearby. Leaning back, she looked around, idly wondered who on earth would have left one lone pot and stolen most everything else. Some people were just too desperate, and still no end of the depression in sight. Besides, as Rosie had said long ago, the place must have looked abandoned to those who had come here. She could well imagine that.
Drifting, closing her eyes, she let the events of the last long weeks whirl around. She pushed aside the memories of the danger, and the murders. Too horrible to relive. She wanted only to think of Ezekiel, of his children. Of Jonty, the little boy who wanted a mama, of when he told her he knew where George’s grave was. Of what Ezekiel had told her George mumbled when—
She opened her eyes. The graves. A wraith-like touch feathered along her arm.
Ezekiel’s voice. ‘He said something like “we’ll save the farm … It’s in the dirt.”’
That horrible man’s voice. ‘He talked of the tin bein’ at the graves … Nothin’ at the graves on your brother’s place, Mr Jones, and nothin’ at yours.’
The graves. Oh, George—the graves here!
Elsa shot off the stool and crashed outside, throwing off the shawl. Her feet pounded on the cold, hard dirt. Ignoring the recently healed bone in her foot, she ran, stumbling and tripping across the yard to where her parents were buried, to where the earth was still soft over her father.
And there—something she’d seen oh-so-long ago but had barely noticed—was the loosened dirt by her mother’s marker. She dropped to her knees and cried an apology to her mother. Tearing at the foot of the marker, she tossed aside the dirt and pebbles and twigs and ants and … was now scraping, scratching and digging with her hands, fingers gouging the deeper, damp soil. Tears were falling as she swept open a small hole and—oh my Lord—it’s here, the tin.
She pushed grazed fingertips down and lifted it out, hearing the unmistakable clink and slide of coins. Falling on her backside, the grave marker lying flat beside her, she stared at the narrow, weighty tin. Rectangular, only an inch or so deep, its lid was clapped on, no hinges. She tilted it this way and that, tried to pry it open. Etched crudely on the lid were the letters ‘R’, ‘G’ and ‘E’.
Dear George. He’d hidden the tin here for the three of them.