Chapter 9

Dear Diary,

When I cry about Jeff these days I feel more the loss of what could have been, than of the brother I grew up with. For years after the war — even before that, while he was still alive in France — I waited for his voice everywhere, from the boys’ bedroom in the morning, from the paddocks in the afternoon, waiting for him to open the kitchen door and throw his hat onto the hat stand — he could land it on the hook by the time he was ten; none of the rest of us could manage it — and yell, ‘What’s for dinner, Mum?’ lifting up the lids and sniffing. Mum said he just inhaled leftovers, the year before he enlisted. Jeff just had to pass through the kitchen and somehow the leftover leg of lamb was just a bone, and the cake tin was empty, and all the crusts had vanished from the bread. Jeff loved crusts. I always gave him mine, and he gave me the centre of his sandwiches.

I still miss him, the boy I knew then. But he’d have vanished, even if he had come home, just like the girl I was has long gone too.

No, what I miss now is what we might have become. I would have smiled and cried at his wedding (to anyone except Amy — I’d had to grit my teeth every time Jeff even danced with her).

He’d have been uncle to my children, and I’d have been aunt to his. Christmases of families together — Jeff gave the worst and best presents ever, like that year he made each of us a penny whistle, and Mum had to hide them in the biscuit tin just to shut the racket up.

Silly, I suppose, to grieve over what might have been. Jeff might have decided to be a butcher and move to Brisbane, and I’d never have seen him again except maybe once or twice for a visit. But he’d never have been a butcher, or moved to Brisbane either, and even if he had it wouldn’t have mattered. He’d have been happy, because Jeff was the sort who always was happy, if he could have been; I’d have known that, and been happy for him too.

Undated, probably late 1920s

She woke to the scent of grilling chops, and bread fried in mutton dripping. It took a moment to realise where she was — in the men’s quarters at Drinkwater Station, four beds to a room, the others empty now. She’d slept in, tired from almost no sleep the night before, having to pack and saddle Empress after Joey and Kirsty were asleep, and ride down the mountain to find Sandy before he left.

She sat up and rubbed her eyes. They’d arrived late last night and been handed plates of bubble and squeak — dinner’s roast mutton, baked potatoes, pumpkin and cabbage all fried together, then cold jam roly-poly, eaten in the strange too-bright ‘electric’ light, the generator muttering in the shed behind. She had been relieved that the men in the room slept in most of their clothes too, only taking off their boots. Best of all, there was a row of dunnies out the back, for privacy.

She felt to make sure that her beanie still covered her plaits, bent to lace her boots, then stepped outside.

There was movement at the station now. Last night’s quiet was over.

All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far had gathered at the stockyard, between the river and the big main house, shrouded in its dapple of English trees. The word had got around.

It was an extraordinary sight to a girl whose life had been the mountains and the valley, with a few short visits to Gibber’s Creek.

The station stretched around her: paddocks of neatly strained fences; stockyards and sheep runs; some kind of green-leafed crop, strangely bright and uniform, between here and the wide glint of the river; well-built smaller houses, each with their own garden, probably for the farm workers; more than a dozen big sheds apart from the one where she’d slept the night before — haysheds, shearing sheds, what looked like a farm shop; and more she couldn’t identify.

It was more like a town than a farm.

And people. There seemed to be dozens of them: young men with bright scarves, old men with stubble. There were horses tethered to the railings and horses already saddled. She panicked for a second. A thousand pounds wasn’t going to go far divided between all these riders. Then she realised that one knot of men and horses was slightly apart from the others, Sandy among them, with Bessie and Empress already saddled.

Sandy had said you had to be invited to this muster. The others must be there just to see them off — or hoping for a last-minute invitation.

Like her.

But at least Sandy had saddled Empress. Which meant he must have already told the manager he’d brought a friend — unless Sandy expected her to be sent off so firmly she’d want to get on Empress and ride away, fast.

She visited the dunny hurriedly, washed her face and hands in the horse trough, grabbed two chops congealing in grease and a hunk of fresh bread still hot from the morning’s baking, then stepped back into the bustle of the courtyard, tearing at the bread and meat with deliberately bad manners, lengthening her stride, her hat well down over her face.

There was a woman among the men by the stockyards now, next to a man in a tweed jacket and flannel trousers, obviously not intending to ride today. He seemed to be the only person here who didn’t look excited. He almost looked amused. Beside him a small boy in boots and moleskin trousers stood his ground among the adults and horse legs that towered above him.

Flinty stared at the woman curiously. It was hard to tell her age. Her face was half hidden by a big sunhat tied with chiffon under her chin. Flinty had imagined the owner of Drinkwater would wear moleskin trousers, but she wore a dress — the prettiest dress Flinty had ever seen, and out here in the dust of the horse yards too. It was made of what looked like green silk, belted low on her hips, just like the new fashions in the newspapers.

Kirsty would love that dress, thought Flinty. She’d love the purple lace-up shoes too, practical but somehow also elegant. The woman turned to speak to the man at her side, and Flinty saw what the loose silk dress hadn’t quite disguised.

Miss Matilda was pregnant.

So this was the famous daughter of the swaggie, the hero of Australia’s most loved song, the girl who’d turned a barren holding into an empire and then given half of it away to her native manager and his sons and cousins. Even at first glance Flinty could see why she was ‘Miss Matilda’ still, not ‘Mrs Thomas Thompson’. Flinty knew of no other property with a native manager. But ‘Miss Matilda’ did things her own way. This woman needed a name of her own.

And even half an empire was still the biggest property around. The man beside her must be her husband, the inventor of one of the radios they’d used in the trenches, and other things Joey had rabbited on about when she had been half listening, just thinking that inventions and factories had made him rich, one fortune married to another, and that Miss Matilda and Thomas Thompson must be quite a couple.

They were.

Even as Flinty watched Miss Matilda laughed, patting the bulge at her middle. ‘I wish I was going with you. But I won’t be riding anywhere till this one’s dropped…’ She glanced at the boy beside her. ‘And I know I said that, but if you say “dropped” about a woman who’s expecting, you’ll get a paddling.’

The boy grinned, showing a gap where his baby teeth had fallen out. ‘Yes, Mum. Just as we don’t use words like b—’

‘Biscuit,’ said Mr Thompson firmly. He gave his wife a look, half amusement, half concern, and total love, so open and even intimate that Flinty felt a pang, and looked at Sandy, who was staring at the ground. ‘All this fuss about a horse,’ he added. ‘At least motorcars don’t gallop off by themselves into the bush.’

Miss Matilda laughed again. ‘Horses breed other horses. You show me a car that can do that, and I’ll go into the car breeding business with you.’ She looked at the riders again. ‘I wouldn’t be riding with you anyway, not in the country you’re going to. I don’t pretend to have your skill and experience. But my heart will be riding with you today. My great-grandfather had a hankering to win the Melbourne Cup, and the old Regret line is the best chance I know of getting it.’ She grinned. ‘And when we do I’ll invite every one of you who helped bring in Repentance.’

‘A share of a thousand pound will do me and the boys nicely, thanks all the same, Miss Matilda. I ain’t got a hankering to go to Melbourne town.’ The speaker was an old man with skin like cracked leather, a crinkle of white beard, and eyes as green as the Drinkwater garden’s English trees. His ‘boys’ were natives, one with white hair and a wrinkled beardless face under his battered hat, the other a few years older than Andy, with paler skin and a sharper nose — perhaps a half-caste.

‘Well, the rest of us’ll be there, and with bells on, Mr Clancy.’ This man had the dark skin of a native too. Was he Pete Sampson, wondered Flinty, the man Sandy had known in France? Apart from the man who must be Mr Sampson, the manager, the other three riders were white men, all in their thirties or forties, their stockhorses strong shouldered and a good hand higher than Empress, at least.

Flinty made her way through the watchers. She took Empress’s bridle from Sandy, trying to look as if there was no question she had a right to be there.

Sandy nodded towards her. ‘This is Flinty McAlpine. The neighbour I told you about.’ Flinty was glad he used her nickname. It looked like Sandy was doing his best for her, but not lying either.

‘Good rider?’ Miss Matilda’s sharp eyes assessed the figure in front of her.

‘Better than me,’ said Sandy.

Miss Matilda nodded. ‘Pleased to meet you, Flinty McAlpine. Any relation to Andy McAlpine?’

‘Brother.’ Flinty let out a breath of relief. So far so good. She tried to make her voice as deep — and the words as ambiguous — as she could.

Miss Matilda stepped back and looked at Flinty thoughtfully. But all she said was, ‘You lost another brother at Bullecourt, didn’t you? And your father earlier this year?’

Flinty nodded.

‘I’m sorry.’ The words held genuine sympathy. ‘There’s always a job at Drinkwater for any man who’s served his country, and for his relatives too.’

Suddenly Flinty saw Drinkwater’s neat paddocks in a different light. There must be many men as rootless as Andy, or just plain jobless now the war was over. Matilda and Thomas Thompson had the money to employ as many men as they wanted — or who needed a job. Drinkwater had benefited from it. But Flinty suspected that the man and woman in front of her would employ any deserving man in need, even if they only had a halfpenny in their pockets.

‘Time to go.’ The words were said by a dark-faced, dark-eyed man, beard as white as snow against his black skin. Mr Sampson, Drinkwater’s manager, thought Flinty. She had never seen an Aboriginal manager before, only stockmen.

Mr Sampson stared at the slender rider in the tattered hat, the shabby jacket not disguising her lack of bulk. ‘You’re a bit young for this game, lad.’ Around them the other riders checked saddle girths. Horses whinnied and snuffled the air.

‘Seventeen,’ said Sandy. Again, the word was true — she couldn’t imagine Sandy lying. But she guessed Mr Sampson heard the reluctance in his voice.

Mr Sampson looked at Flinty’s smooth cheeks, her hands — too small for a seventeen-year-old boy’s. He shook his head. ‘Doesn’t look seventeen. It’s hard riding where we’re going.’

‘They breed us tough round Snowy River,’ said Sandy.

Mr Sampson looked at Miss Matilda.

‘Up to you,’ said Miss Matilda.

Mr Sampson shook his head again. ‘Can’t risk it. Not with a young ’un I ain’t worked with before.’ He mounted his horse swiftly, as though that was the end of the discussion.

Flinty felt like the earth had slipped away from her. She stared at the ground, willing herself not to cry, here in front of everyone. All her hopes, all her planning, dashed in half a minute. Sandy had done his best for her. But her face was too young looking for a seventeen-year-old boy’s. Her slenderness was strength in a girl, but if she’d met a boy with her build she too would have doubted his power to stay the day. Nor could she try to persuade Mr Sampson to change his mind — she couldn’t tell them she’d been riding after brumbies with Dad and Sandy and Jeff and Andy since she was ten years old. They’d know she was a girl before she’d said a dozen words.

And why should they risk taking her? There would be a dozen men here today happy to take her place, if they’d wanted more riders. She suddenly realised that taking another rider would mean a smaller reward for each of the others, a one-tenth share instead of one-ninth. She calculated swiftly. Eleven pounds less for each of them. Not a fortune, compared to a hundred pounds, but enough to make a difference to most of the riders here.

She looked up to find Miss Matilda watching her. ‘How about two guineas for two weeks’ work here, helping when they bring the brumbies back?’ She nodded at the riders. ‘You can even have your own room with this lot gone.’

Two guineas was good money, more than a young man could expect for farm work. This was charity — and kindness.

But not enough. She couldn’t keep up the deception for two weeks either. And she’d left a note for Joey and Kirsty, saying she’d be back in a week, that she’d left another note in the Macks’ letterbox asking that they be collected in the cart and kept at the bigger farm till her return. They’d worry if she was gone too long. She had a sudden vision of Nicholas waiting for her in the mist too.

He’d called her the girl from Snowy River. It looked as though he’d been wrong. There had to be some way to get the money they needed. But just now she wanted to get away from this place of humiliation as quickly as she could.

She shook her head at Miss Matilda’s offer and managed a smile of sorts at Sandy to thank him for trying. Sandy looked relieved, and excited too. Sandy always looked happiest in the saddle. She hadn’t seen him look as… Sandy-like…since he left for the war. ‘See you in the valley,’ he said, then hesitated. ‘I’m sorry, Flinty.’

She shrugged, not trusting her voice to sound boyish enough with everyone still listening.

She turned and tied Empress up at the stockyard again, then ducked back to the dunnies so that the brumby hunters could leave while she was gone. The brumbies had been last seen at Jackson’s Flat, halfway back towards the valley. The last thing she wanted was to have to ride with the hunters through her own country, discarded.

The watchers had melted back to their own jobs or farms when she got back. Miss Matilda and her family had vanished too. Flinty could see the horsemen in the distance, the horses’ hooves kicking up sand as they headed up into the ranges, Mr Sampson on his big gelding, Sandy looking young beside the others.

She mounted Empress slowly. She’d be back at the Macks’ by nightfall. She signalled to Empress to walk, following the same path as the riders. It was strange to see the horizon meet the sky so far away. She hadn’t been down here on the plains for months, not since she’d come with the Macks to meet Sandy’s train. It had been years since she’d been to Jackson’s Flat too. The last time had been with Jeff, just before the war. Sandy had been at the dentist’s in Gibber’s Creek, so it had been just the two of them.

Valley legend said there was a cave near Jackson’s Flat in which a bushranger had buried stolen treasure way back in the gold rushes. They’d never found the cave — Flinty doubted there was any cave to find, for it wasn’t limestone country — but they had found a ridge that was easy riding down to the plains. The bushranger had probably used the route to leave the police bewildered.

I’ll use the short cut today, she thought. Empress could scramble up that ridge as easily as she’d walk up the track. She’d be past Jackson’s Flat long before the brumby hunters arrived, and not have to ride with the humiliation of the hoof prints and droppings in front of her, reminding her how she’d failed.

She’d be there before the brumby hunters…

Flinty grinned, and urged Empress to a canter. Too young for mustering in rough country? She’d show them! She’d be at Jackson’s Flat waiting for them, Empress not even winded.

How could they not accept her then? She’d show the men of the plains how a girl from Snowy River could ride!

It was mid-morning when she got to Jackson’s Flat, pushing through the last of the hop bushes. The scrub was thicker this year. There’d been fewer cattle to trample it since the men had left for war, so many stock turned into cans of bully beef to feed the armies.

She dismounted and gazed around.

Hoof prints! The unmistakeable scent of horse.

The brumby hunters had been here already! How had they got here before her? She looked at the hoof prints again…

Small prints — foal sized — among the large ones. Suddenly she felt like throwing her hat up into the air. Brumbies! They were still near — no more than a short ride away, for the scent of horse was fresh, the pile of droppings shiny. The wild horses would have found a place to wait out the heat of the day, down in the gully probably, before heading off to the creek to drink and graze at dusk.

She hauled off her saddlebags — no point Empress carrying unnecessary weight on the chase — and lugged them over next to a tree leaning like an old man bent from a hundred years of wind. She drank from her water bag, then poured a little water into her hands for Empress. Not too much, not before the big ride ahead, but enough. Empress’s warm whiskery lips were comforting on her skin.

‘We’ll show them, won’t we, girl?’

Empress nickered, as though she’d understood, then dropped her head; her big teeth tore at the tussocks as Flinty sat with her back against a snow-gum trunk. The shadows shortened as the sun drew higher towards midday. A lizard darted onto a rock, grabbed a tiny insect, then retreated.

This was her world. The eagle, soaring on the hot air rising from below, the creak of the branches, the hard ground with its gleams of quartz, the pale everlastings, the little white flowers Mum had called baby faces, the bush cherries Dad had shown her and Jeff how to find and eat…

She heard the brumby hunters long before she saw them: the clomp of hooves, the mutter of the men. She stayed where she was, letting them see her — see a boy, relaxed and confident, waiting for them under a tree, his pony cropping the tussocks. Someone who knew this land so well ‘he’ could get here long before the older, more experienced riders.

Mr Clancy saw her first. He grinned, and she knew he’d read her message. ‘Well,’ he said.

‘Flinty!’ said Sandy. He sounded half exasperated, half proud; he was almost laughing and still wholly there in a way she hadn’t seen him since the war. ‘I might’ve known. Told you Flinty was good,’ he added to Mr Sampson.

‘Took a short cut,’ said Flinty casually, trying to make her voice as gruff as possible. There was no way she could avoid speaking now. The other riders stared at her. Mr Clancy and his ‘boys’ laughed. A couple of the men scowled, shown up by a youngster.

The older of Mr Clancy’s ‘boys’ said something to Mr Clancy, gesturing at Flinty, his black face wrinkled like a windfall apple.

At last Mr Clancy nodded to Mr Sampson. ‘Let the lad come.’