A Changing Land(43)

‘Come, come. Hurry up, girl.’

The rebuke was addressed to Margaret, who was returning from the food safe located on the shady eastern side of the homestead. ‘Did you top-up the trays?’

‘Yes Ma’am.’ The girl held a pad of butter in one hand, a container of dripping in the other.

‘Good.’ The safe was constructed like a cupboard with hessian walls sitting in drip trays of water. The water soaked into the hessian and if a light wind blew, it created a remarkably cool atmosphere. Trying to explain the importance of keeping food cool and unspoilt, however, was a daily challenge. ‘And I think of those city folk with their fancy ice chests. Why they’ve no idea.’ Mrs Stackland set the butter on the tray with the bread, biscuits and tea. ‘Right you are then, lass. Take that into the Master and Mrs Gordon and do try not to slop anything.’

‘Yes Ma’am.’

‘And do stand up straight.’

‘Yes Ma’am.’

Mrs Stackland observed the girl’s studied concentration and slightly wobbly progression with undisguised concern, before turning her attention to the skillet. With a bustling movement of her wide hips, she sent the sullen Martha in the direction of the vegetables. Wrapping her towel around the burning hot handle, she served up the meat.

‘Have I not told you to tidy yourself before entering the dining room?’ Mrs Stackland tutted irritably at Margaret on her return. Dabbing at the girl’s shiny face, she set the plates on the tray and handed it to the girl. ‘They don’t wish to have their meals served to them by a maid dripping in sweat. Mr Gordon first and then Mr Luke and then –’

‘I’ll be having mine right here,’ Luke announced, lifting a plate from the tray.

‘Right. Well, then,’ Mrs Stackland stammered in surprise as her kitchen found itself with the unusual presence of a male who was neither Chinese nor child. Luke Gordon, gone near eight months, was a rare sight at Wangallon indeed.

Luke, aware his intrusion had momentarily thrown the usual precision order of the kitchen into disarray, winked jauntily at Wangallon’s cook, then grinned at the maid. Clearly she was a half-caste, for her lighter skin contrasted obviously with the ebony of her companion. Her large brown eyes cast him a direct glance and then she was gone, her footsteps padding lightly across the polished cypress pine floorboards. Luke cocked his left eyebrow. The girl was a new addition and a pleasant one at that. Positioning himself at the far end of the table, he cut into the mutton chops with relish, appreciatively nodding at Mrs Stackland as she sliced two pieces of bread for him. He dropped the bread onto his plate, scraping the thick crusty dough through the juices. Adding a slice of meat, he chewed hungrily, reaching for the dripping to smear a thick layer of it onto his second piece of bread.

‘The missus says the biscuits are good.’ Margaret directed the statement to no one in particular as she re-entered the kitchen, although she made a point of looking at Luke.

Shooing the girl back with a wave of her hand, Mrs Stackland gave both maids firm instructions as to how the peel the vegetables. ‘And make sure there is a good dollop of dripping in the pan, but don’t put them on until I tell you. I want that bird half-cooked before they go in. Yes, Margaret you can put it on now. Well, Martha, don’t stand there like a dumb cluck. Open the oven door. For goodness sake use some towelling or you’ll burn up so bad you’ll lose the use of your hand. And tie back that long hair of yours.’

Luke glanced at Martha. She was a bigger build than her lighter-skinned companion, with rounded hips and breasts and a slow way about her movements. He figured this was Mungo’s woman, with her long dark hair and newness to the tasks required of a maid.

Mrs Stackland poured tea for both of them. ‘I confine myself to two glasses of water a day,’ she admitted. ‘The first laced with a little cod-liver oil for the digestion –’ she looked across at the maids and lowered her voice – ‘the second with a teaspoon of brandy for the constitution.’ She held up a tin of condensed milk. ‘Truly this is the greatest of inventions.’

‘Merry Christmas.’ Lee appeared, dumping two full cast iron buckets on the wooden table, the movement shuddering the table’s contents; rattling cups and saucers, pots and skillets and spilling the tea in Mrs Stackland’s cup.

‘And Merry Christmas to you too, Lee,’ Luke replied as the maids screeched at his unannounced entry and the cook admonished him for disrupting her domain.