STRANGERS
IT seemed to Mrs. Hurst that the evening grew hotter as sundown
approached, and the atmosphere more oppressive. The blue haze drifting
slowly down from the ranges made all the air heavy: it had spread gently
over the landscape, so that distant objects were misty and indistinct.
Since this was not unusual in summer-time, when fires were constantly
burning in the distant ranges, it had caused no anxiety to the settlers
in the valleys below. But as Mrs. Hurst strolled out into the garden,
weary of the hot house, she cast an apprehensive glance upwards.
“I believe it is thicker than it was this morning,” she said, half
aloud. “I wonder—if the wind should get up—” She did not put the
partly-formed thought into words.
Even in the garden the feeling of being shut in oppressed her, and
presently she opened the white gate and strolled slowly down the slope
towards the road. There was a log close to the fence; she sat down on
it, looking across the paddocks towards the green line of wattles that
marked the winding course of the creek.
“I wish the children would come home,” she said.
From the hills a loud booming noise came as if in answer, and she
started violently, while the echoes ran round the gullies: laughing at
herself as they died away.
“Only the road-gang blasting somewhere,” she said. “I believe I am
getting nervous. This long spell of dry heat makes us all jumpy. If only
rain would come—!”
A sharp creaking sound, faint at first, but gradually drawing nearer,
made her look round; and presently, a bend in the road showed a queer,
unwieldy object looming through the haze. It revealed itself, coming
closer, as a light cart, drawn by an old chestnut horse that hung its
head, shuffling wearily through the dust as though its load had drained
it of every particle of energy it had once possessed. Piled high on the
cart was furniture: stretchers and bedding, a kitchen-table, a battered
meat-safe, and a few rough chairs, with wooden boxes filled with
hastily-packed odds and ends. Two dirty children of five and six years
old were perched in corners among the load. Beside the horse—it was
clearly not necessary to guide it in any way—walked a woman, covered
with dust, and carrying a younger child. She stumbled often as she
walked, never lifting her face. At intervals she said, mechanically,
“Gee up, Bawly!”—a remark which had no effect whatever upon the
chestnut horse.
The creaking that had first attracted Mrs. Hurst’s attention came from
the off-wheel. The sound was rapidly growing more acute, rising to a
long-sustained screech that was the clearest possible demand for more
oil: but the woman trudging by the horse’s head did not seem to notice
it. A step sounded near Mrs. Hurst, and she glanced round, to meet
Danny’s friendly gaze.
“Evenin’, Mrs. Hurst,” he said. “I jus’ come over to see if yous was all
right. Been a cow of a day, hasn’t it?—an’ the smoke’s thicker than
ever. Wonder who them travellers are? They’ll have a hot axle if they
don’t watch it.”
“I was just thinking that, Danny,” Mrs. Hurst said. “Poor things, how
tired they look!” She opened the gate and went out into the road.
“Good-evening,” she said, gently. “Your wheel is very stiff, isn’t it?
Won’t you rest here for a few minutes while I get you some oil for it?”
The woman had started violently at her voice. The chestnut horse pulled
up thankfully, and dropped his nose yet farther earthwards.
“I been thinkin’ it wouldn’t get us much farther,” she said, dully.
“Trouble is, I don’t know how much farther we got to go.”
“Have you come far?”
“Out of the hills,” she nodded vaguely backward. “We been on the track
all day. Any township near here?”
“Not for two miles.”
“Two mile!” It was clear that it might as well have been twenty, by her
hopeless look. “Well, we got to get on. Gee up, Bawly!”
“Oh, but you can’t!” Mrs. Hurst cried. “You—are you going to friends?”
“Oh, no. We don’t know anyone round here. We come out of the hills.”
“Then you are not going any farther,” Mrs. Hurst said, quietly. “Just
turn your horse in through this gate. Will you open it, Danny?”
Danny had it open before she had finished speaking.
“Better not try ’n’ get the load up the hill before I grease that axle,”
he said. “I’ll slip up an’ get some grease.” He took the rein, and led
the tired horse through the gateway.
“But we can’t stay here—four of us,” the woman said. “I thought there’d
be a pub somewheres: I got money, y’ know, Missus.”
“Why, I wouldn’t let you go another yard!” Mrs. Hurst answered. “You
look just tired out, all of you. Sit down on this log for a few minutes
before you walk up the hill.”
The woman sank on the log with a sigh of relief, and the heavy baby in
her arms woke and cried. Mrs. Hurst leaned down and took it out of the
mother’s arms. Danny had already lifted the children out of the cart:
they stood by the wheel, holding each other’s hands, too shy to move,
and half-inclined to cry, too.
“My word, it’s good to sit down!” said the woman. “You’re awful kind,
Missus. It’s too bad, loafin’ on you like this.”
“It would have been too bad if I had not happened to see you,” replied
Mrs. Hurst. “There—isn’t she a good baby!”—as the baby, deciding that
she liked the change of arms, ceased crying and looked about in an
interested way. A half-smile flickered on the weary mother’s face.
“She’s been jolly good, considerin’ she ain’t a year old,” she said.
“But it’s been a long day for all of ’em, an’ I was afraid to stop long
anywhere. It’s a bit rough, when you don’t know the country an’ you
ain’t got any idea where you’re goin’. Is this near Baroin?”
“Oh, no: Baroin is twelve miles away. But you need not worry any more:
you can stay here until you are all rested. What brings you and the
bairns alone on the track?”
“Me husband made us come. He an’ his brother have a sawmill back there;
jus’ got it well goin’. But we got fair scared of the fires: they been
creepin’ nearer and nearer, an’ if the wind changed they’d be down on
our camp before you could say knife. I’d ’a’ stuck it out with them if
I’d been by meself. But there’s the kids.”
“Is there no one near you?”
“No. There’ll be a road up after a bit: there’s only a track through the
bush now, an’ the timber’s awful thick all round us. Great timber for
millin’, of course, but you’d be roasted alive if a fire come through
it. There ain’t nowhere to get to, you see. There’s a bit of a creek,
but it’s that small it ’ud be no use to you.”
“But your menfolk? Is it safe for them to stay?”
“Safe?” was the dull answer. “No, it’s darned unsafe. Y’ wouldn’t catch
me leavin’ but for that. I didn’t want to go, anyhow. But Mick made me.
‘Bill an’ I can put up a fight for the mill,’ he says, ‘but I’m darned
if we can fight for the kids, too. So you got to clear out with the
kids,’ he says. ‘You take the furnitcher an’ the kids, an’ you clear out
o’ the timber.’ An’ I knew that was sense, so I done it. But I tell you
straight, Missus, I’d like to dump the kids somewhere an’ go back!”
“You can’t do that,” Mrs. Hurst said, gently. “Your husband would only
be more anxious.”
“An’ what about me?”
Mrs. Hurst had no answer for that question. She glanced away from the
haggard misery of the other woman’s eyes.
“Just come up to the house, all of you, and let me take care of you,”
she said. “The wind may not change, and we may get rain at any
time—why, your Mick might be down looking for you in a day or two. Come
and I will make you some tea.”
“My word, I could do with a cup o’ tea,” the woman said. “The poor kids,
too—!” She beckoned to the two small boys, who had never stirred. “C’m
on, you two. They been awful good, an’ it’s been a tough day.”
“It must have been a very tough day,” Mrs. Hurst said. “They will like
some milk, and I have plenty.”
“Milk! My word, they ain’t seen milk f’r a blue moon!” said their
mother.
“They shall have all they can drink now. Can you fix the wheel, Danny?”
“Would ’a’ had a job if the ol’ cart ’ud gone a hundred yards farther,”
said Danny, who had jacked up the wheel, and was busy over it. “Dry as a
bone, an’ near jammed altogether. Oh, yes, I’ll fix it all right, Mrs.
Hurst.” He grinned sympathetically at the woman. “Don’t you worry,
mum—I’ll bring the cart up to the house presently.”
“Will you put it into the big shed and turn the horse into the creek
paddock, Danny? I’m sure Mr. Merritt would not mind.”
“Not ’im,” said Danny. “Right you are. Mrs. Hurst. Don’t you bother
about anything.”
“Gimme the baby, Missus,” said the mother. “She’s too heavy for you to
carry.”
“I think she is lighter for me than for you,” Mrs. Hurst answered,
smiling. “And I like her—she is such a friendly baby.” She held the
dusty bundle closely as they went up the slope.
“Oh—a garden!” said the woman from the tall timber. “Oh, what a lovely
garden! Missus, I ain’t seen a flower for near six months!”
“Then I must show you all mine—when you are rested.” Mrs. Hurst put her
into a big chair on the veranda. “Just sit quietly until I bring you
some tea. No—baby is coming with me.”
“Lor’, it’s like meetin’ an angel from ’eaven!” said the weary creature.
She sank back, with a long sigh. “Micky an’ Joe, don’t you touch them
flowers!”
“They can’t do any harm—please don’t trouble about them,” Mrs. Hurst
said. At the door she looked back. Micky and Joe were standing before a
huge sunflower, their faces a study of rapt wonder—never had they
dreamed that the world could hold so great a marvel. There were tears in
Mrs. Hurst’s eyes as she hurried to the kitchen.
The baby, made happy with a drink, and with hands and face hastily
sponged, was placed in an upturned box, where a string of empty
cotton-reels threw her into a very ecstasy of joy: she was clearly an
unexacting infant, to whom much attention was a thing unknown. There was
a kettle boiling: in a very few minutes Mrs. Hurst carried out a tray.
Her visitor tried to rise.
“No, you are to sit still. Baby is quite all right. Drink that—don’t
try to eat until you feel like it.” She poured out two glasses of creamy
milk and put them, with a plate of bread-and-butter, on the edge of the
veranda. “Come on, boys!” But Micky and Joe held back, even when their
mother called them, overcome with shyness.
“They’re like wild things—they ain’t hardly seen a living soul ’cept
ourselves for ages,” said the mother, apologetically. “They don’t mean
to be bad-mannered, Missus.”
“And they are not bad-mannered—we’ll be great friends by to-morrow.”
Mrs. Hurst smiled. “They will be happier if I go away. Just look after
them and yourself, and don’t worry about Baby.” She retreated into the
house, and presently, peeping through a curtain, had the satisfaction of
seeing Micky and Joe attacking their first drink with faces that began
by being doubtful, and ended in pure bliss as the glasses were set down
empty.
“You can ’ave more,” she heard the mother say, filling the glasses with
a hand that shook. “Drink ’em up, Kids. An’ you be good boys, now, or
your Dad ’ll want to know the reason why when he comes!”
“When’s ’e comin’, Mum?”
“Lor’, if I knew that I wouldn’t be near off me ’ead this minute!” said
the mother.
Robin and Barry came in a little later, in a frame of mind divided
between triumph and depression; pride in their unlawful exploit having
become damped, as they neared home, by melancholy forebodings on the
subject of Mr. Merritt’s pig. They were trying to calculate the probable
value of the victim to its owner, should it have been spared to arrive
at the dignity of full growth, when upon their astonished eyes burst the
vision of a crowded kitchen. At the table were seated a haggard woman
and two small boys—the latter shining from the effects of a recent and
thorough hot bath, and clad only in clean shirts. Mrs. Hurst was moving
about, plying them with food; while Polly, in a corner, her face alight
with happiness, fed an equally-scrubbed baby. The baby sat on her knee,
dipped its fingers in its food, and clawed its nurse’s face with them,
while the nurse beamed, and uttered incoherent words of pride. Danny was
filling kettles with the air of one who insists on joining in a general
upheaval.
Robin and Barry stared—not with more amazement than was shown on the
faces of the strangers, as the new-comers, guns in hand, halted in the
doorway. Mrs. Hurst looked up and nodded brightly.
“Why, there are my warriors!” she said. “Any rabbits? I hope so, because
I shall want some badly for to-morrow. We have guests, you see.”
The warriors looked at each other blankly.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mother,” said Robin, in a voice of tragedy. “We
haven’t got one!” Resolve seized her. “Come on, Barry—we’re sure to get
some on the flat by the creek if we hurry.” Her face fell. “Oh, and we
haven’t milked!”
“I done all the feedin’ and milkin,’ Miss Robin,” spoke Danny, grinning.
“Danny, you’re a brick! Hurry up, Barry—it’s nearly dark already.” They
dashed from the kitchen and clattered across the yard.
One of the visitors uplifted his voice in the first remark he had made
since his arrival at Hill Farm.
“Ain’t that feller got ginger hair!” said little Mick.