A Changing Land(121)
Lauren took the glass bottle of lavender water and did as she was bidden. Then, removing the filthy towel from about her neck that served as a napkin, she stood for inspection.
Mrs Grant pulled her roughly by the shoulders, turning her from left to right. A haze of dust sprinkled the wedge of light shining through the timber walls of the two-roomed hut. Lauren imagined it to be fairy dust and flicked at the shimmering particles with her hand, stirring the air so that her mother let out a tremendous sneeze. The baby immediately began to cry, which set Lauren’s young sister whining.
‘God’s holy trousers, Lauren,’ Mrs Grant complained, blowing her nose on the hem of her stained skirt. ‘Be quiet the both of you,’ she directed at the squealing children, ‘or I’ll send you to live with your slut of a sister, Susanna.’
Lauren watched with admiration as her mother’s raised hand elicited immediate silence.
‘Shoes.’
Lauren lifted the olive green skirt seconded from the washing pile and pointed each of her feet in turn. Although patched with mismatched leather, the stitching was barely noticeable. Lauren had spent a brain-numbing hour polishing the leather with bees wax so that her shoes were glossy, and even her repaired gloves were benefiting from the spit and polish her mother had so industriously undertaken.
‘And you’ve food?’
Clearing the dirty dishes, soiled nappies and needle and thread to one end of the table, Lauren opened the small traveller’s bag. Inside were two changes of smalls, a new skirt made from the length obtained at the store before Christmas, a white blouse, her hair brush and a loaf of bread wrapped in calico. Her waterbag hung on the packing case chair nearby.
‘Good. Now you’ve remembered everything I’ve told you, girl.’
Considering her mother’s instructions were now scalded in her brain, Lauren longed to say no. ‘Yes, Mother. I leave now; that will give me a good two hours of daylight by which time the full moon will be up and I’ll be within Wangallon’s boundary. I’ll find somewhere to camp and not move until daylight. That way I won’t lose my way.’
‘Good. Follow the tracks, travel slowly and arrive exhausted. That way they’ll be compelled to look after you.’ Mrs Grant lifted the pot and sat it back on the hearth.
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘And don’t leave once you’ve decided which one you’re having. It will be months before the minister returns. By then we might be ready for a wedding and a christening.’
Lauren grinned.
Mrs Grant sat the lavender water in her daughter’s bag and added a bottle of cod liver oil. ‘Have you everything, girl?’
‘I think so, Mother.’
‘Good. Give me a heave with the log then will you.’
Lauren walked outside and pushed at the great length of timber that poked through a hole in the hut’s wall. Inside her mother positioned the burning end of it over the fire.
‘Then go with my blessing and send word when you’re ready for me to join you.’ Her mother sat a battered straw hat upon her head and nodded goodbye.
Lauren mussed the hair of her two siblings in a brief farewell and, with her bag and water over her shoulder, traipsed out to the waiting dray and the broken-mouthed horse. A buckboard would have been preferable. Leather seats were more to her liking. Throwing her bag into the tray she hoisted her skirts and climbed aboard. She looked about the dusty street ready to give a practised nod to anyone stickybeaking at her departure. Regretfully there was no one around. Lauren shoved at the hat perched on her head and with a jut of her chin flicked the reins. She’d never had time for the folks of Wangallon Town anyway. The dray trundled out into the middle of the dusty street. Lauren didn’t plan on returning or contacting her family again unless her plans went astray. If a lady such as herself had plans to better herself, first she had to extricate herself from those who could only be a continual reminder of her less than impressive past.
Angus wasn’t quite sure about running away now he was about to do it. It was hot and sticky and the length of the day’s heat made him weary and wishing for bed. Rivulets of sweat tumbled down his back and he wriggled at the hot itch of it, irritated by the closeness of the air. Now he understood why his father always left in the middle of the night, returning either by midmorning or in the cool of the late afternoon. The moon had already risen as he stepped off a log and mounted Wallace. His horse gave a gentle whinny and shook his neck like a frill-necked lizard. Crickets were calling out and, as he walked Wallace out past the stables, Angus looked over his shoulder as the familiar building began to grow distant. He was pleased for the guiding light of the moon and for a land he knew equally well, whether day or night. Yet when he passed the ridge that was the dividing point between the homestead and the creek he reminded himself of why he was leaving and the basis of his plan.