Back To Billabong - Mary Grant Bruce
Thanks to "the bee," the little farm on the creek looked very
flourishing on the great day when the lady of the house came down in
state to take possession of her domain. Bob had worked hard in the
garden, where already rows of vegetables showed well; Jim and Wally had
aided Norah and Tommy in the making of a flower garden, laying heavy
toll on Hogg's stores for the purpose; to-day it was golden and white
with daffodils and narcissi and snowdrops. The cultivation paddocks, no
longer brown, rippled with green oats; and cattle were grazing on
the rough grass of the flats, once a swamp, but already showing the
influence of the big drain. Bob had great plans for ploughing all his
flats next year. Dairy cows pastured in the creek paddock near the
house; beyond, Bob's beloved sheep were steadily engrossed in the
fascinating pursuit of "turning into wool and mutton." He never grew
tired of watching the process.
The ever-present problem of labour, too, had solved itself pleasantly
enough. Sarah, for many years housemaid at Billabong, had married a
man on a farm near Cunjee, whose first attempt at renting a place for
himself had been brought to an untimely end by the drought; and Sarah
had returned to Billabong, to help in preparing for the home-coming of
the long-absent family, while her husband secured a temporary job in
Cunjee and looked about for another chance. There Jim had found him,
while helping at the hospital; the end of the matter being that Sarah
and Bill and their baby were installed at Creek Cottage, Bill to be
general utility man on the farm, and to have a share of profits, while
Sarah helped Tommy in the house. Every one was satisfied, and already
there were indications that Tommy would be daft over the baby.
Sarah came out now to say that tea was ready--she had insisted on being
responsible for everything on this first day. Not that there was much
to do, for Brownie had sent over a colossal hamper, declaring that Miss
Tommy shouldn't be bothered with thinking about food when she wasn't
'ardly settled. So they packed into the little dining-room; where,
indeed, it took no small ingenuity to stow so large a party, when three
of the six happened to be of the size of David Linton and Jim and Wally;
and Tommy did the honours of her own table for the first time.
"And to think," she said presently, "that six months ago there was only
Lancaster Gate! Of course, there was always Bob"--she flashed him a
quick smile--"but Bob was--"
"In the air," put in Norah.
"Very much so. And it didn't seem a bit certain that I could ever get
him out of it; or, if I did, that I could ever escape from Lancaster
Gate."
"And you wouldn't, if the she-dragon had had her way," Bob said.
"No. There was nothing to do but run. But even when I dreamed of
running, I never thought of more than a workman's cottage, with you
earning wages and me trying to make both ends meet. And now--look at us!
Bloated capitalists and station owners."
"Well, you were a cook not so long ago. I wouldn't be too proud," Wally
gibed.
"All the more reason for me to be proud--I've risen in the world,"
declared Tommy. "Left my situation to better myself--isn't that
the right way to put it? And we've got the jolliest home in
Australia--thanks to all of you. Do have some more cake, Mr. Linton; I'd
love to say I made it myself, but Brownie did--still, all the same, it's
mine."
"Don't you worry," he told her. "I'm coming here plenty of times for
cake of your own baking."
"That's what I want." She beamed at him. "All of you. Bob and I will
feel lost and lonesome if we don't see you all--oh, often."
"But you're going to," Norah said. "We'll be over goodness knows how
many times a week, and you two are always coming to dinner on Sunday,
and ever so many other days as well."
"Was it in your plans that any work should be done on this estate?"
queried Bob solemnly.
"Why, yes, in your spare time," Wally answered. "Any time you're not on
the road between here and Billabong, or catching a horse to go there, or
letting one go after coming back, or minding the Billabong horde when it
comes over, you can do a little towards improving the creek. I say, Bob,
it sounds the sort of life I'd love. Can't you give me a job, old man?"
"Seeing that you've done little but work on this place since you came
back from Queensland, I shouldn't think you'd need to ask for a job,"
retorted Bob. "However, I'll take you on as milker if you like--it's
about the only thing you haven't sampled."
"No," said Wally, "you won't. Whatever beast I finally take to by way
of earning my living, it won't be the cow--if I can help it. I'd sooner
graze giraffes!"
"Oh, do try!" Norah begged. "I'd love to see you trying to put a bridle
on one in a hurry!"
"Wonder what would happen if one rode a giraffe and he reared?" pondered
Jim.
"You'd have to swarm up his neck and hang on to his little horns," Wally
said. "But they're nice, silent beasts, giraffes, and I think they'd be
very restful to deal with."
Every one laughed unsympathetically. Restfulness was the last quality
to be associated with Wally, who had been remarkable throughout his life
for total inability to keep still.
"It's always the way," said Wally, in tones of melancholy. "Every
fortune teller I ever saw told me that no one understood me."
"All fortune tellers say that, and that's why people think them so
clever," said Tommy. "It's so soothing to think one is misunderstood. My
stepmother always thought so. Did Bob tell you, Mr. Linton, that we had
had letters from home?"
"No--from your people?"
"From Papa. The she-dragon didn't write. I think her words would
have been too burning to put on paper. But Papa wrote a pretty decent
letter--for him. He didn't speak of our letters from Liverpool--the
notes we wrote from the hotel, saying we were leaving for Australia.
But he acknowledged Bob's letter from Melbourne, saying we were going
up country under your wing, and actually wished us luck! Amazing, from
Papa!"
"I think he's jolly glad we got away," Bob said.
"I think that's highly probable," said David Linton. "You'll write to
him occasionally, won't you?"
"Oh, yes, I suppose so," Bob answered. "Sometimes I'm a bit sorry
for him; it must be pretty awful to be always under the heel of a
she-dragon. Oh, and there was a really fatherly sort of letter from old
Mr. Clinton. He's an old brick; and he's quite pleased about our finding
you--or you finding us. He was always a bit worried lest Tommy should
feel lonesome in Australia."
"And not you?" Norah asked laughing.
"No, he didn't worry a bit about me; he merely hoped I'd be working
too hard to notice lonesomeness. I think the old chap always was a bit
doubtful that any fellow would get down to solid work after flying; he
used to say the two things wouldn't agree. But you sent him a decent
report of me, didn't you, sir?"
"Oh, yes--I wrote when you asked me, just after you bought this place,"
David Linton said. "Told him you were working like a cart-horse, which
was no more than the truth, and that Tommy was serving her adopted
country as a cook; and that I considered your prospects good. He'll have
had that letter before now--and I suppose others from you."
"We wrote a few weeks ago--sent him a photograph of the house, and
of Tommy on a horse, and Tommy told him all about our furniture," Bob
chuckled. "I don't quite know how a staid old London lawyer will regard
the furniture; he won't understand its beauty a bit. But he ought to be
impressed with our stern regard for economy."
"He should," said Mr. Linton with a twinkle. "And I presume you
mentioned the sheep?"
"As a matter of fact," said Tommy confidentially, "his letter was little
but mutton. He described all his ewes in detail--"
"Colour of their eyes?" queried Wally.
"And their hair," nodded Tommy. "I never read anything so poetical. And
any enthusiasm he had over went to the pigs and the Kelpie pup!"
"But what about the cows?" laughed Norah. "And the young bullocks?"
"Oh, he mentioned them. But cattle are just four-legged animals to
Bob; they don't stir his soul like sheep and pigs. He couldn't write
beautiful things about them. But when it comes to sheep, he just
naturally turns into a poet!"
The object of these remarks helped himself serenely to cake.
"Go on," he nodded at his sister cheerfully. "Wait until my wool cheque
comes in, and you want a new frock--then you'll speak respectfully of my
little merinoes. And if you don't, you won't get the frock!"
"Why, I wouldn't disrespect them for anything," Tommy said. "I think
they're lovely beasts. So graceful and agile. Will any of them come yet
when you whistle, Bobby?"
"Are you going to put up with this sort of thing, Bob?" demanded Jim.
Bob smiled sweetly.
"I'm letting her have her head," he said confidently. "It's badly
swelled just now, because she's got a house of her own--but you wait
until she wants a new set of shelves, or a horse caught in a hurry
so that she can tear over and find out from Norah how to cook
something--then she'll come to heel. It's something in your climate, I
think, because she was never so cheeky at home--meek was more the word
to describe her."
"Meek!" said his sister indignantly. "Indeed, I never was meek in my
life!"
"Indeed you were, and it was very becoming," Bob assured her. "Now
you're more like a suffragette--" He stopped, staring. "Why, that's it!
It must be in the air! She knows she'll have the vote pretty soon!" He
broke into laughter. "Glory! Fancy little Tommy with a vote!"
Tommy joined in the general mirth.
"I hadn't realized it," she said, "and I needn't bother for over
eighteen months, anyhow. And I don't believe that any of you have ever
voted, even if you are twenty-one--except Mr. Linton, of course; and you
don't know a bit more about it than I do."
"Hear, hear!" said Wally. "I certainly don't, and neither does Jim. But
when we do vote, it's going to be for the chap who'll let us go and dig
our own coal out if there's a strike. That's sense; and it seems to me
the only sensible thing I've ever heard of in politics!" A speech which
manifested so unusual an amount of reflection in Wally that every one
was spellbound, and professed inability to eat any more.
Bob and Tommy stood on the verandah to watch their visitors go; Mr.
Linton and Norah in the motor, while Jim and Wally rode. The merry
shouts of farewell echoed through the gathering dusk.
"Bless them," said Tommy--"the dears. I don't believe we'd have a home
now but for them, Bob."
"We certainly wouldn't," Bob answered. "And sometimes I feel as if
they'd spoon-fed us. Look at all they've done for us--these months at
Billabong and all they've taught us, and all the things that they've
showered on us. We couldn't pay them back in twenty years."
"And they talk as if the favour were on their side," his sister said.
"There's the buggy they've lent us--Mr. Linton spent quite a long time
in pointing out to me how desirable it was for them that we should use
it, now that they have the car and don't need it. And the horses that
apparently would have gone to rack and ruin from idleness if we hadn't
come."
"And the cows that don't seem to have had any reason for existence
except to supply us with milk," Bob said laughing; "and the farm
machinery that never was really appreciated until immigrants came
along--at least, you'd think so to hear Jim talk, only its condition
belies him. Oh, they're bricks, all right. Only I don't seem as if I
were standing squarely on my own feet."
"I don't think we could expect to, just yet," said Tommy pondering. "And
if they have helped us, Bobby, you can see they have loved doing it. It
would be ungracious for us not to take such help--given as it has been."
"Yes, of course," Bob answered and squared his shoulders. "Well,
I'm going to work like fury. The only thing I can do now is not to
disappoint them. I feel an awful new-chum, Tommy, but I've got to make
good."
"Why, of course you're going to," she said, slipping a hand through his
arm. "Jim wouldn't let you make mistakes; and the land is good, and
even if we strike a bad season, there's always the creek--we'll never be
without water, Jim says. And we're going to have the jolliest home--it's
that now, and we're going to make it better."
"It's certainly that now," Bob said. "I just can't believe it's ours.
Come and prowl round, old girl."
They prowled round in the dusk; up and down the garden paths by the
nodding daffodils, out round the sheds and the pigsties, and so down
to where the creek rippled and murmured in the gloom, flowing through
paddocks that, on either side, were their own. Memories of war and of
gloomy London fell away from them; only the bright present and a future
yet more bright filled them; and there was no loneliness, since all
the big new country had smiled to them and stretched out hands of
friendliness. They came back slowly to their house, arm in arm; two
young things, like shadows in the gloom, but certain in their own minds
that they could conquer Australia.
Bob lit the hanging lamp in the little sitting-room, and looked round
him proudly. A photograph caught his eye; a large group at his Surrey
Aerodrome, young officers clustered round a bi-plane that had just
landed.
"Poor chaps," he said, and stared at them. "Most of 'em don't know yet
that there's anything better in the world than flying."
"But they've never met merino sheep," said Tommy solemnly.
CHAPTER XIV
THE CUNJEE RACES
"Who's going to the races?" demanded Jim.
He had ridden over to the creek alone, and Tommy had come to the garden
gate to greet him, since the young horse he was riding firmly declined
to be tied up. It was a very hot morning in Christmas week. Tommy was in
a blue print overall, and her face was flushed, her hair lying in little
damp rings on her forehead. Jim, provokingly cool in riding breeches and
white silk shirt, smiled down at her across the gate.
"Races!" said Tommy. "But what frivolity. Why, I'm bottling apricots."
"No wonder you look warm, you poor little soul," said Jim. "You oughtn't
to choose a scorcher like this for bottling. Anyhow, the races aren't
to-day, but New Year's day--Cunjee Picnic meeting. We're all going, so
you and Bob have got to come. Orders from Norah."
"Oh, New Year's day. I'd love to come," Tommy said. "I've never seen
races."
"Never seen races!" ejaculated young Australia in sheer amazement.
"Where were you dragged up?" They laughed at each other.
"Aunt Margaret wasn't what you'd call a racing woman," Tommy said. "I
don't fancy Bob has seen any, either. Bill and Sarah, to say nothing of
the baby, are going. I offered to mind the baby, but Sarah didn't seem
to think the picnic would be complete without her."
"People have queer tastes," Jim said. "I wouldn't choose a long day
at races as the ideal thing for a baby; but Sarah seems to think
differently. Wonder what Bill thinks? Still, I'm glad she didn't take
you at your word, because we'd have had to dispose of the baby somewhere
if she had. I suppose we could put it under the seat of the car!"
"Oh, do you?" Tommy regarded him with a glint in her eye. "No; we'd have
made you nurse her--she isn't 'it.' She's the nicest baby ever, and I
won't have her insulted."
"Bless you, I wouldn't insult the baby for worlds," grinned Jim. "I'll
look forward to meeting her at the races--especially as you won't be
minding her. Then it's settled, is it, Tommy? We thought of riding; will
it be too far for you?"
"Not a bit," Tommy said. "Bob and I rode in and out of Cunjee the other
day, and I wasn't tired--and it was dreadfully hot."
"Then you'll be all right on New Year's day, because the racecourse is
two miles this side of the township," Jim said. "But Norah said I was to
tell you some of us could easily go in the car if you'd rather drive."
"Oh, no, thanks; I know you always ride, and I should love it," Tommy
answered. "Is Mr. Linton going?"
"Oh, yes. Indeed, as far as I can tell, the whole station's going," Jim
said. "All except Brownie, of course; she scorns races. She says she
can't imagine why anyone should make anything run fast in the 'eat if
they don't want to."
"Does Brownie ever leave Billabong?"
"Hardly ever," Jim answered, laughing--"and it's getting more and more
difficult to make her. I think in a year or two it will need a charge
of dynamite. Oh, but, Tommy, we got her out in the car the other
evening--had to do it almost by main force. It was a hot evening, and
we took her for a spin along the road. She trembled like a jelly when we
started, and all the time she gripped the side with one hand and Norah's
knee with the other--quite unconsciously."
"Do you think she enjoyed it at all?" Tommy smiled.
"No, I'm jolly well sure she didn't," Jim responded. "Brownie's much too
well mannered to criticize anyone else's property, but when she got
out she merely said, 'You have great courage, my dear.' And wild horses
wouldn't get her into it again, unless we promised to 'make it walk,'
like we did the day we brought her over to help at your working bee. The
funny part of it is that Norah believes she was just as frightened that
morning, only she had a job on, and so was too busy to think of it. But
as for going in a car for mere pleasure--not for Brownie!"
"Brownie's a dear," said Tommy irrelevantly. "Jim, can't you put that
fierce animal in the stable or the horse paddock, or somewhere, and come
in for some tea? I simply must get back to my apricots."
"And I've certainly no business to be keeping you standing here in the
heat," Jim said. "No, I can't stay, thanks, Tommy--I promised dad I'd
meet him at the Far Plain gate at eleven o'clock, and it's nearly that
now. You run in to your apricots, and don't kill your little self over
them; it's no day for cooking if you can avoid it."
"Oh, but I couldn't," Tommy answered. "They were just right for
bottling; the sun to-day would have made them a bit too soft. And it's
better to get them done; to-morrow may be just as hot, or hotter."
"That's true enough," Jim said. "Feeling the heat much, little Miss
Immigrant?"
"Oh, not enough to grumble at," she answered, smiling. "And the
bathing-hole in the creek is a joy; it's almost worth a hot day to get a
swim at the end of it. Bob has built me a bathing-box out of a tree, and
it's a huge success; he's very pleased with himself as an architect."
"That's good business," approved Jim. "You two never grumble, no matter
what comes along."
"Well, but nothing has come along but good luck," Tommy said. "What have
we had to grumble at, I should like to know?"
"Oh, some people find cause for grousing, no matter how good their luck
is," Jim answered. "I believe you and old Bob would decline to recognize
bad luck even if it did come your way."
"It's not coming," Tommy said, laughing. "So don't talk about it--I
don't believe it exists." She stood watching him for a moment as he
tried to mount; his big young thoroughbred resented the idea of anyone
on his back, and Jim had to hop beside him, with one foot in the
stirrup, while he danced round in a circle, trying to get away. Jim
seized an opportunity, and was in the saddle with a lithe swing;
whereupon the horse tried to get his head down to buck, and, being
checked in that ambition, progressed down the paddock in a succession of
short, staccato bounds.
"I think I should have to recognize bad luck coming if I had to ride him
instead of Jim," remarked Tommy quaintly. She turned and ran in to her
neglected apricots.
New Year's day broke clear and hot, like all the week before it. Norah,
arriving at the Creek about ten o'clock, looked a little anxiously at
her friend.
"We're used to riding in the heat, Tommy, dear," she said. "But you're
not--are you sure you feel up to it?"
"Why, I'm going to love it," Tommy said. She looked cool and
workman-like in a linen habit and white pith helmet--Norah's Christmas
present. "I hadn't these nice things to wear when Bob and I brought the
sheep out from Cunjee three weeks ago; and it was just as hot, and so
dusty. And that didn't kill me. I liked it, only I never got so dirty in
my life."
"Well, we shall only have a hot ride one way," said Norah
philosophically. "There's a concert in Cunjee, and the boys want to stay
for it. The concert won't be much, but the ride home in the moonlight
will be lovely. You and Bob can stay, of course?"
"Oh, yes. Bill must bring Sarah and the baby home in good time, so he
will milk the cows," Tommy answered. "He wanted them to stay for the
concert, but Sarah had an amazing attack of common sense, and said it
was no place for a baby. I didn't think she considered any place unfit
for a baby, and certainly Bill doesn't."
"Bush people don't," said Norah, laughing. "If they did, they would
never go anywhere, because the babies must go too, no matter what
happens. And the babies get accustomed to it, and don't cry nearly as
much as pampered ones that are always in the nursery."
"Bush kiddies grow a stock of common sense quite early," said Wally's
voice from the door. "It leaves them in later life, and they stay
gossiping with immigrants in new riding-kit, leaving their unfortunate
fathers grilling in the sun. Which he says--" But at this point Norah
and Tommy brushed the orator from their path, and hastened out to the
horses--finding all the men comfortably smoking under a huge pepper
tree, and apparently in no hurry to start.
Bob bewailed his yellow paddocks as they rode down to the gate.
"They were so beautifully green a few weeks ago," he said. "Now look at
them--why, they're like a crop. The sun has burnt every bit of moisture
out of them."
"Don't let that worry you, my boy," David Linton said. "The stock are
doing all right; as long as they have plenty of good water at this time
of the year they won't ask you for green grass." He gave a low chuckle.
"You wouldn't think this was bad feed if you had seen the country in the
drought years--why, the paddocks were as bare as the palm of your hand.
Now you've grass, as you say yourself, like a crop." He looked at it
critically. "I could wish you hadn't as much; fires will be a bit of an
anxiety later on."
"Grass fires?" queried Bob.
"Yes. There's not enough timber here to have a real bush fire. But this
grass is dry enough now, and by February it will go like tinder if any
fool swagman drops a match carelessly. However, you'll just have to keep
your eyes open. Luckily, your creek can't burn--you'll always have so
much safeguard, because your stock could take to it; and that row of
willows along the bank would check any grass fire."
"My word, wouldn't a fire race across the Billabong plains this year!"
said Wally.
"Yes, it would certainly travel," agreed Mr. Linton. "Well, we've
ploughed fire-breaks, and burned round the house, and we can only hope
for good luck. You'd better burn a break round your house soon, Bob."
"Bill was saying so only this morning," Bob answered. "I nearly chucked
the races and stayed at home to do it--only I was afraid it might get
away from me single-handed, and I couldn't very well keep Bill at home."
"Oh, time enough," the squatter said lightly. "You're not so dry as we
are, and we only burned last week."
"We'll come over and help you to-morrow, if you like," Jim said. "Wally
wants work; he's getting too fat. A little gentle exercise with a racing
fire on a hot day would be the very thing for him. We'll come and burn
off with you, and then have a bathing party in the creek, and then you
and Tommy must come back to tea with us." Which was a sample of the way
much of the work was done on the Creek Farm. It had never occurred to
the two Rainhams that life in Australia was lonely.
The road to Cunjee was usually bare of much traffic, but on the one
race day of the year an amazing number of vehicles were dotted along
it, light buggies, farm wagonettes, spring carts and the universal
two-wheeled jinker, all crammed with farmers and settlers and their
families. Wives, a little red-faced and anxious, resplendent in their
Sunday finery, kept a watchful eye on small boys and girls; the boys
in thick suits, the girls with white frocks, their well-crimped hair
bearing evidence of intense plaiting overnight. Hampers peeped from
under the seats, and in most cases a baby completed the outfit. Now and
then a motor whizzed by, leaving a long trail of dust-cloud in its wake,
and earning hearty remarks from every slower wayfarer. There were riders
everywhere, men and women--most of the latter with riding-skirts slipped
on over light dresses that would do duty that night at the concert and
the dance that was to follow. Sometimes a motor-cycle chugged along,
always with a girl perched on the carrier at the back, clinging
affectionately to her escort. As Cunjee drew nearer and the farms closer
together the crowd on the road increased, and the dust mounted in a
solid cloud.
The Billabong people drew to one side, as close as possible to the
fence, cantering over the short, dusty grass. It was with a sigh of
relief that Jim at last pointed out a paddock across which buggies and
horsemen were making their way.