Keziah felt a keen sense of pleasure as she hung the mirror on the wall of the schoolteacher’s two-room cottage. Assigned carpenters had finished her roof and the windowpanes were in place, the fireplace was whitewashed. She moved the bunk bed with its striped palliasse to a more pleasing angle then scrubbed the wooden table, chairs and shelves with vinegar.
Today was a milestone – taking up residence in her first ever home that wasn’t drawn by a horse. She would have preferred a vardo, but this cottage had all the novelty of a toy.
As she waited to take the bread from the oven, she hung up the pots and pans bought from Sunny Ah Wei’s oriental emporium on wheels. Nailing her calendar to the wall she smiled wryly at its picture of children dancing around a snowman to celebrate an English Christmas. What a contrast to her first Australian Christmas. No snow, holly or mistletoe but a day of sweltering heat spent feasting on the traditional English Christmas fare of mince pies, roast turkey, plum pudding and the singing of carols around George Hobson’s family table.
Although past, present and future were intertwined for her, like the three strands of a plait, the calendar proved that less than two months had elapsed since her arrival as the schoolteacher Saranna Plews. Keziah found it difficult to measure the transition to such a radically different life. Here in Ironbark time seemed to hurtle in haphazard leaps and bounds.
Today her major problem loomed large. Each day she swathed herself in shawls to disguise her growing belly. She did not dare to seek medical advice from the Scottish physician Dr Leslie Ross who lived at the Haunted Farm but whose buggy was periodically seen at Ironbark. And what of the school? George Hobson had indicated she was expected to keep the school doors open all year – except for the two weeks around Christmas. So how would she manage when the time of her travail arrived in March? How could Miss Plews teach school and manage to deliver her babe in secret? And what else would 1838 hold in store for her?
Although she hungered for news of Gem, a meeting with her passionate husband at this late stage of her pregnancy was unthinkable. Her one hope in convincing Gem he was her first and only love was to face him when the babe was out.
The delicious smell of bread made her mouth water. Would there never be an hour of the day when this unborn babe didn’t make her so ravenous? She set the table with a red cloth, removed the cooked lamb from the meat safe that swung in the open window to catch the breeze. Its hessian sacking cover had dried out, so she soaked it in water and re-covered the safe to cool the contents. The black cast-iron kettle whistled cheerily.
When Keziah sat down to enjoy her first meal in her new home she remembered just in time to thank The Del for the blessings of her little refuge. Help me behave like Saranna – a lady – in public. Keep the lid on my Romani temper.
Through the window she saw that George Hobson’s buggy had been delivered as arranged so she could drive to Bolthole Valley. It was said the general store owner there, Matthew Feagan, was the unofficial ‘town crier’. Keziah not only hoped to gain news of the bushranger known as The Gypsy but also of Jake Andersen’s progress, and exactly where in Bolthole cemetery Saranna Plews had been buried as Keziah Smith.
• • •
On the cross-country route to Bolthole Valley Keziah eyed the posy of native flowers she had gathered. How strange life was. Baxt had chosen her to cheat the Angel of Death from claiming Jake Andersen’s life. Yet here she was on her way to place flowers on her own grave.
The track ran through a forest that had been hacked out by an earlier generation of timber cutters intent on felling the tough ironbarks. Occasional glorious angophoras grew in unorthodox patterns, each mushroom-pink trunk stained with rust-red resin that looked like bloodstains. The sticky sap healed their old wounds and left a legacy of welted knots wherever a branch had been torn off by a storm. To Keziah these trees were a symbol of healing, of survival.
She was overcome by nostalgia for the open road adventures of her lost Romani life.
But like a nagging tooth she was constantly reminded of her biggest problem. What on earth was she to do with the babe after its birth? She prayed he would not resemble his hated father, Caleb, in character as she knew he would do in looks.
She focused her mind on Jake Andersen. She was deeply concerned for him, having last seen him in agony. Joseph Bloom had told her that Jake appeared to be in good spirits, although restless from being confined in hospital so long, and that Jake had seemed somewhat surprised to receive a message from Saranna Plews.
If Jake had heard that the Widow Smith was dead and buried, he must be really confused. Which is hardly surprising. Some days when I wake up even I forget who I’m supposed to be.
She had taken a risk sending Jake that message. She wondered if she would ever see him again.
Bolthole Valley’s main street was almost empty when she stopped in front of Feagan’s General Store. She saw the House of the Four Sisters and was surprised by the vehicle parked in front. The tartan ribbon flying from the roof of the buggy proclaimed it belonged to Dr Ross. So the gossip about his visits to the brothel was true! Keziah shrugged. Men were men, even the best of them.
An approaching pair of matrons wearing widow’s weeds looked like two black crows armed with shopping baskets. They tilted their noses at the sight of a barefoot, raggedly dressed Aboriginal girl whose wide-eyed toddler clung to her back as she stood in the shadows of the laneway beside Feagan’s store.
Across the street at The Shanty with No Name two seedy-looking stockmen were propped against the veranda posts with a bottle of grog in each hand. Their ribald comments about ‘black sugar’ amused the other men ogling the Aboriginal girl.
Keziah threw the drinkers such a steely glance it stopped their laughter. She said ‘good morning’ to the girl, who was too shy to respond and disappeared down the laneway into the darkness of Feagan’s barn.
Inside his store Matthew Feagan was lamenting Governor Bourke’s departure and holding forth about the temporary administrator Lieutenant-Colonel Snodgrass who had hired a convict as tutor. Feagan was outraged. ‘How can we trust a man who handed over guardianship of his own children to an attempted assassin?’
‘Who is the next governor?’ Keziah asked.
‘It’s said Whitehall’s picked a navy man this time. Whoever he is let’s hope when he arrives he’ll handle the London dispatches on the transportation question better.’ Feagan’s speech seemed to be peppered with newspaper headlines as if he was intent on extricating every vestige of drama.
‘These colonies can’t survive without assigned labour. Mark my words, the new governor will soon wake up to how our society functions. I’ve added my signature to a landholders’ petition to that effect.’
Although Feagan spoke with the unswerving authority of the unthinking, Keziah sensed that at heart he was not really a bad man.
The elder widow asked anxiously, ‘Any more sightings of bushrangers, Mr Feagan?’
‘Not this week, Mrs Hill, it’s been a quiet week.’
Keziah’s heart sank but then she realised that no news of Gem meant that he was still alive.
She looked up from examining a bolt of calico to ask Feagan about the victim of the coach tragedy at Blackman’s Leap. She decided not to reveal she’d been a passenger herself. First she wanted to know how people had identified the dead girl.
‘I understand she was buried in Bolthole cemetery. Did she have a proper funeral?’
‘Of course,’ said Feagan. ‘We’re all good Christians here. She’s buried in the non-denominational corner with a wooden cross marking her grave. No one knows what religion she was.’ He added darkly, ‘If any!’
Keziah dared not look up. ‘What are people saying about her?’
‘Some immigrant fresh from Home. No known kin. An Irish doctor’s report stated she was a widow called Mrs Smith. A pagan Gypsy most like. Fortune-telling cards were found among her things.’
‘Those cards are the devil’s work!’ the elder widow proclaimed.
Keziah was only too relieved to hear that the switch of identities had indeed been successful. The Gypsy Mrs Smith was safely in her grave. It was now safe to introduce herself as Saranna Plews to Matthew Feagan the town crier.
The younger widow had a fresh grievance. ‘Mr Feagan, that lubra outside. Can’t you send her packing? She’s got no business here among decent folk. Everyone knows that bushranger One Eye dumped her on society to give birth to his half-caste.’
Keziah flushed, as she was reminded of how inferior she had been made to feel being half gaujo.
Feagan looked uncomfortable. ‘She does have a half-white child so I gave her permission to sleep the night in my barn on account of her sickly boy. Only Christian thing to do.’ He wagged a cautionary finger at the widows. ‘Remember baby Jesus and the manger.’
Keziah tried to disentangle her thoughts. At least Saranna had a proper funeral. I hope that satisfies her mulo. As soon as I’ve got the money saved I’ll order a proper tombstone for Keziah Smith.
She tried to sound casual. ‘About that coach accident. Is the driver progressing well?’
Feagan hated to be caught short of information. ‘I heard one victim’s leg was broken beyond repair, crippled for life.’
Keziah felt weak at the idea of Jake Andersen being crippled. Badly shaken, she collected a newspaper and hurried outside. At the entrance to the laneway she sensed something was wrong. Hearing a man’s laboured, rhythmic grunts, she hurried down to the open barn door.
The Aboriginal toddler lay whimpering on the ground. One of the shanty drunks had the black girl rammed against the wall with her skirt pulled over her face. As he violently penetrated her, his mate urged him on, unbuttoning his own fly as he eagerly waited for his turn.
The drunk’s act was short-lived. His body thwarted his performance and in anger he slapped the girl’s face.
‘You ain’t a whore’s bootlace! Not worth a farthing.’ He tossed down a small coin.
Keziah hurled herself into the barn, seized a scythe and yelled blue murder. The drunk’s mate took one look at her and fled for his life. She thrashed the scythe above the drunk’s head. When he fell in an attempt to dodge it, she held it over him like the sword of Damocles.
‘Next time you pay for a woman’s company treat her with respect!’
Terrified, he stumbled off down the lane.
‘Come!’ said Keziah, but the girl looked too afraid to respond, so she gently placed the little boy in his mother’s arms.
‘My name is Saranna. I can’t afford to pay much but if you agree to work for me, you’ll never go hungry or suffer the likes of these brutes again.’
Keziah averted her gaze from the girl’s dark eyes to give her time to decide, then offered her the truth. ‘This isn’t charity. I desperately need your help.’
As she bundled the young mother and child into the buggy, Keziah was aware they were under intense scrutiny from Feagan and the two widows. Across the street in front of The Shanty with No Name she saw the drunk and all the other customers were lined up on the footpath to gain a good vantage point.
One drunk called out to her. ‘I’ll pay you to chase me round the barn anytime you fancy, teacher!’
Keziah shouted back. ‘Just you watch! I’ll give you all something to remember me!’
She was suddenly aware that a startled Dr Ross had left the brothel and was peering at her over the top of his spectacles. It was too late to stem the tide of her anger.
Grabbing the reins she drove the buggy full tilt towards the shanty’s veranda. At the last moment she veered left but not before she’d forced all the men to leap out of her way. She gave the horse its head and they rattled off down the road. When she looked back through the cloud of dust kicked up in her wake, she was pleased to see a row of men with gaping mouths.
She was sobered by her next thought. Saranna would never have behaved like that. Mi-duvel! It’s such hard work being a lady.
• • •
Back home in Ironbark Keziah quickly put a meal together for her hungry guests and threw her energy into caring for them.
The Aboriginal girl identified herself as Nerida. Her fingers curved towards herself and her little boy and indicated with pride that they were Wiradjuri.
Keziah managed to draw out that Nerida was fifteen. It was hard to define the toddler’s age as he was so under-sized but he appeared to be about eighteen months old. His ‘whitefella name’ was Murphy. Keziah remembered this was an alias used by One Eye and that the young runt of a bushranger who’d shielded Saranna had called him Murphy. She smiled reassuringly as she pressed food on her guests.
‘Will you be comfortable here?’ She indicated the palliasse she had made up for them by the fireplace, but Nerida backed out the door. Keziah watched her make a small fire some distance from the hut and curl up beside it. Instinctively Keziah dragged her own bedding outside. Unsure if she was giving offence, she placed blankets beside Nerida then lay nearby.
‘May I keep you company? As a child I often slept under the stars.’
Nerida nodded and rocked little Murphy as she sang softly to him in her language.
Keziah saw that Nerida’s hand did not have a stump on the pinkie finger that she had noticed on the hands of some Aboriginal women in Sydney Town. She wondered what that custom meant but mindful of Romani respect for privacy did not ask. If Nerida wanted her to know she’d tell her in her own time.
Venus shone brightly like a distant candle in the sky as Keziah whispered her prayers.
‘Take my love to my beloved Gem.’ On impulse she added, ‘And give healing to Jake Andersen. You know what men are like. Jake’s a man of action. He would never be happy unless he’s free to ride and fight.’
• • •
Keziah awoke next morning to find Nerida had already swum in the waterhole and collected berries and grass seeds. The girl’s face was serene, her dark eyes luminous. Despite her initial monosyllabic responses her understanding of English was excellent. When Keziah clumsily complimented her on this Nerida’s response was eloquent.
‘Know ’em Wiradjuri, plenty Gundungarra, Ngunawal, little Dharug. Talk ’em up Kamilaroi. Irish funny. English not so hard but too much bloody swearing.’
Keziah laughed in agreement. ‘I’d love to learn some of your words. They sound like music.’
In the days that followed they walked and swam together and Nerida showed her how to collect bush tucker. Few words were needed for them to feel safe with each other.
Keziah knew she had to make Nerida’s employment official because of the anxious, even hostile, way she’d noticed some local people reacted to Aborigines. Joseph Bloom was away in Goulburn for a Jewish festival and George Hobson had gone to a magistrate to request additional assigned men. Keziah didn’t know the exact reason for Gilbert Evans’s absence. No doubt the man’s busy informing on someone somewhere.
As the overseer Griggs was in sole charge during their absence, Keziah expected he would be even more arrogant than usual. He was, but she quickly quashed his objections to Nerida.
‘I’ll pay for her food and clothing. It will cost my employers not one penny.’
Griggs openly sneered in Nerida’s direction. ‘Keep that gin away from my men. We don’t need more bastards.’
Keziah stood her ground. ‘You prevent your men molesting us or my employers will learn of your negligence in permitting that stranger who tried to rape me on their property.’
Griggs backed down. Keziah was aware he had spread rumours that she was under the protection of Joseph Bloom. Although that lie made her angry, right now it suited her to call Griggs’s bluff for the sake of Nerida’s safety.
When Griggs stormed off in anger, she called after him. ‘If there’s any more trouble, my friend Joseph Bloom will hold you accountable.’
That evening while Nerida suckled Murphy at their campfire, Keziah saw the girl cast discreet glances at the way she braced her back to counteract the weight of her belly. Keziah hastily changed her stance but Nerida’s voice was soft and reassuring.
‘You don’t worry, Miss. Your time come we go walkabout. Long time bring out many bubbas. All grow strong. Reckon whitefella bubba come out pretty much same like blackfella.’
Keziah grasped Nerida’s shoulders and burst into tears. ‘No one in this whole country knows the truth, Nerida. How could you tell I was so afraid to face the birth alone?’
‘Belly your business. But I know women’s business. Bubba come out plenty clever.’
‘I believe you, Nerida!’ Out of sheer relief Keziah burst into a Romani song. Weaving her hands and arching her back, her stamping feet dictated the rhythm that Nerida tapped out, and her fear was transformed into their joyous music.
• • •
Keziah sat at her teacher’s desk and looked around at the children absorbed in drawing on the blackboard the picture of sailing ships, convicts lined up before a flagpole flying the Union Jack and Aborigines dancing at a corroboree. She thought it might be a rose-coloured version of the arrival of the First Fleet in 1788 but she wasn’t going to ask them to draw hungry, emaciated convicts and angry Aborigines which might be a picture closer to the truth. Big Bruce had finished his work and was helping the little ones.
She glanced up at the calendar. Tomorrow was 26 January. Foundation Day. The fiftieth anniversary of the British settlement at Port Jackson and the hoisting of the Union Jack. She was told it would be a holiday for the whole colony. No school, no work, much carousing by everyone bond and free.
She should be excited but she was too tired to feel any emotion. For weeks the Australian heat had been a growing torment. Nerida adamantly refused to continue the ritual of lacing her into Saranna’s corset on the grounds that, ‘This fella corset bad for bubba.’
Despite the heat Keziah pulled her woollen shawl closer around her. Beads of perspiration trickled down her neck. Her eyes widened in alarm at the tinkling sound of water. She glanced down in horror at the puddle under her seat. Her time had come!
Then everything went black.
• • •
Keziah opened her eyes to find she was lying on the floor with a ring of anxious children’s faces peering down at her. Remembering the reason she fainted, she deliberately upset the water jug to camouflage the fact that her waters had broken. Her babe was demanding to be born.
‘Winnie, fetch Nerida, please!’ The little freckled redhead obeyed with alacrity. Keziah forced a smile as waves of pain accompanied each contraction.
‘I’ll stay with you!’ Big Bruce volunteered.
‘Thank you no, Bruce. Please help the little ones mount their ponies.’ She clenched her teeth. ‘Happy Foundation Day, children! I’ll see you all in – aaah! It’s early – but go home now!’
‘Thank you, Miss Plews!’ The children scattered in all directions.
Nerida raced in with Murphy clinging to her back to find Keziah in tears.
‘Nerida! It’s coming far too early. My babe will die!’
‘Don’t you worry, Saranna.’
Keziah leaned on Nerida as they made their way to the chosen place – a secluded bank by the creek, so densely screened by bushes it was like a secret room open to the sky. Very soon she needed the linen gag Nerida placed in her mouth to muffle her cries.
She watched Nerida stoke up a small fire and fill a bowl with creek water, but she kept removing the gag to give Nerida anxious instructions.
‘Keep a sharp lookout. If anyone knows what’s happening, I’m lost!’
Nerida nodded calmly and kept replacing the gag in her mouth. Keziah realised that Nerida’s claim was no idle boast. Experienced and confident she expertly delivered the babe. What it lacked in size it made up for in the strength of its lungs.
‘Mi-duvel!’ Keziah wailed, ‘The whole of Ironbark will hear him!’
‘Clever, huh? Him good little bubba. Fat belly.’ Nerida proudly carried the infant to the fire, cradling him as she chanted softly. Keziah lay watching them in wonder, so absorbed in this moment she no longer looked around to see if anyone had stumbled on the scene.
At her first sight of the babe she felt waves of confusion and relief. No love. Would this funny little thing have the strength to survive? She looked at his downy blond hair and features for a resemblance to Caleb Morgan. His skin was a lighter shade of olive than her own. Dark blue eyes stared back at her. She counted his fingers and toes. Exquisite. Her hatred of Caleb fought against her awe that this unwanted little being was so perfectly formed.
The Morgans’ treacherous web now seemed so distant. With instinctive wisdom the babe seemed to sense her ambiguity about him. He clutched her finger in a grip that forced her to speak to him.
‘Maduveleste,’ Keziah said as she kissed his forehead. She held Nerida’s hand and added, ‘God bless you also, Nerida.’
The babe’s gaze was serious and unblinking.
‘Can I ever forget where you came from?’ she asked him softly. ‘If anyone can teach me to love again, you can little boy. Please live!’
Keziah’s smile to Nerida needed no words after the experience they had just shared. Their lives were parallel – both had been betrayed by the fathers of their babies.
Nerida watched the babe suckling. ‘Him small but smart. Know what to do, all right!’
Keziah looked into his eyes and swore her strongest Romani oath.
‘I swear to you By My Father’s Hand. I will love you, protect you and give you the best possible life I can make for you!’
Mindful of her traditions Keziah burned all the linen used in the birth. Too weary to walk, she crawled with the baby to the edge of the creek, wet his head and whispered his true name that must remain secret to protect him from the Evil One, The Beng.
She looked up, uneasy at the unexpected sight of a horseman disappearing into the bush.
• • •
Under cover of darkness they returned to the cottage just before dawn. Keziah crawled into bed and watched Nerida wrap the sleeping babe in a cocoon of linen before placing him in a pillow-lined fruit box.
‘You’ll put him on the school veranda like we agreed?’
Nerida nodded placidly but Keziah was afraid the babe would be attacked by a wild dingo or some marauding animal. ‘You’ll keep him in your sights until someone finds him? There might be snakes about! It’s their breeding time, isn’t it?’ She began to cry. ‘Oh how did I ever get myself into this mess?’
‘Don’t you worry none. Won’t let anyone steal him. You sleep.’
Keziah struggled to remain awake. She dragged a chair close to the window where she could see the outline of the school veranda and the box in the middle of it. Nerida kept her hidden vigil in the bushes nearby.
Dawn finally broke. Keziah recognised that the figure approaching the school was one of Hobson’s assigned labourers, the Glaswegian giant, Sholto. Tattoos covered him so densely he looked like a walking paisley eiderdown. She saw him halt at the sound of the babe’s faint cries and heard his words carry on the still air, ‘Gawd almighty!’
Nerida appeared as if out of nowhere and pointed him in the direction of the cottage. Keziah watched him carry the box as gently as a boy carries a nest of rare bird’s eggs.
At the first door knock Keziah greeted him with a great show of surprise. ‘My goodness, Mr Sholto. What have you got in that box? A puppy?’
‘Nay, Miss. A wee bairn.’
Nerida stifled a giggle behind her hands.
‘Leave it with me for the time being, Mr Sholto. We’ll see it’s properly fed.’
Within seconds of closing the door Keziah thrust her nipple in the babe’s mouth.
• • •
Two days later Keziah managed to cover the distance to Joseph Bloom’s house and casually informed him of the existence of the foundling she had named Gabriel Stanley. She offered to act as its foster mother until its real mother came forward to claim it.
His reply was serious. ‘Gabriel Stanley could have no better mother than you, Miss Plews.’
She gave him a startled smile. Mi-duvel! Does he know?
She only had a few precious days to breastfeed Gabriel before she had to return to the school. Sadly she began to drink the necessary herbs to dry up her breast milk. She was grateful to Nerida for weaning Murphy so that she could become Gabriel’s wet nurse. Yet at the same time Keziah felt a sense of loss she could not feed her own babe herself.
By the time she returned to the schoolhouse, the strain of keeping the birth secret had taken its toll. Keziah imagined – or did she see? – Saranna’s mulo. Was this the imbalance some women suffered after a birth? Or was she really going insane?
One night she was convinced she saw the black-bearded horseman observing her from within a ring of trees. A red pinpoint of light glowing in the darkness. Distracted by Gilbert Evans riding past, she turned back to find the mysterious horseman had disappeared. This was no mulo. At the place where she had seen him, she found a half-smoked cigar.