Washerwoman's Dream Page 21

  As her words sunk in, Winifred thought, ‘She’s going to tell me I’m no longer needed,’ and a feeling of panic went through her.

  She was relieved when Mrs Dawkins said, ‘I want to ask a favour of you. Could you … Could you possibly run the hotel for a while? I want to go to Brisbane. I’d like a change and I need to see an agent about selling.’

  The following week Mrs Dawkins caught the train to Brisbane and left Winifred in sole charge, with the help of the rouseabout and an Aboriginal girl.

  * * *

  Left to her own devices Winifred found she could manage very well. She left the lighting of the stove to the rouseabout; it also fell to him to take the early morning teas to the rooms and to empty the chamber pots. At first he did this with bad grace, until Winifred made it plain that he either knuckled under or found another job. She had a protective feeling towards the young Aboriginal woman and kept her working in the kitchen and laundry, out of reach of the men staying in the hotel.

  Often she had to rewash the plates and scour the pots or throw a few buckets of water over the sheets on the line but she didn’t hold this against the girl, remembering how she was at the same age and also that the girl had not grown up in this kind of household and knew nothing of housekeeping.

  Winifred had helped in the bar before, but this was different. She was in charge. It had always worried her that men came into the bar at the end of shearing and squandered all their money on drink. She remembered how Charles had come home empty-handed after being away, and understood now how it happened. Men went into a hotel, after a long, hard season of work, looking for company, a comfortable bed and a hot meal before they returned home. But under the influence of drink they soon forgot.

  Now she was going to try to change things. When men came in with their pay cheque she put it on a spike behind the bar and made sure there was something left to take home. When she thought a man had drunk too much she told him to go to bed. If he refused, she simply ignored his requests to fill up his glass. It was something Amelia Dawkins had never done and at the first the men accused Winifred of trying to run a Sunday school. But although they might stay away a couple of nights in protest, she noticed they came slinking back. She was never sure whether it was the clean beds or the food that attracted them. It never occurred to her that many of the men had a genuine affection for her because she made no demands on them, except that they behave in a decent manner. They liked the way she looked them in the eye, and there was something about her that reminded them of home and of their wives and sisters. She only had to look at a man who was behaving badly for him to quieten down, though there were exceptions.

  She was cleaning the bar one morning when she heard a knock on the door. When she didn’t answer it she saw a burly man with a shaved head peering in the window. Seeing her there he began to shake the door violently until she opened it a crack and said, ‘We don’t open till ten.’

  Before she could close it he had pushed his way inside and walked to the bar demanding whisky.

  ‘You’ll have to come back in an hour. The bar isn’t open yet.’

  ‘I want a whisky, you fucking bitch.’

  Winifred felt her temper rise. ‘I don’t allow that sort of language here.’

  ‘And who’s going to stop me?’ He reached over the counter and attempted to help himself to a bottle of whisky.

  There was an empty bottle on the floor and Winifred reached down and picked it up. She swung it around her head and brought it down hard, fetching the man a glancing blow on his temple. He lost his balance and fell sideways, striking his head on the side of the bar before falling to the ground unconscious.

  The rouseabout was in the yard cleaning the stables when she ran out screaming, ‘Quick, I’ve killed a man!’

  He followed her back into the bar and then laughed. ‘That’s Big Swede … You couldn’t kill him if you tried.’

  He grabbed the man by the feet, dragged him out into the yard and threw a bucket of water over him from the horse trough. Winifred stood watching from the safety of the door, certain she’d killed him. She was relieved when she heard him groan. He staggered to his feet, fell against the fence, vomited and then, holding his head, lurched along the dirt road until he collapsed in a heap under a gum tree. Later, before she opened the bar, she peered out the window and was relieved to see that he had gone.

  The news of her exploit spread and men she had never seen before came into the bar to look at her. They were surprised to see a slight, handsome woman in a printed cotton dress, with dark hair and a determined look in her grey–green eyes, who refused to be drawn when someone said, ‘Is this the hotel where Big Swede lost a fight with a sheila? They say she king-hit him in the first round.’

  * * *

  Mrs Dawkins did not return to the hotel. Instead she wrote to say that Michael Flanagan had offered to buy the hotel, and asking Winifred to stay on until he took over. She was returning to England.

  It was some weeks later before Michael arrived with his dray. She saw him from the window and watched as he unsaddled his horses, wiped them down, saw that they had water and feed, and led them to the stable.

  He came into the kitchen where she was busy filling the salt cellars for breakfast. ‘Mrs Dawkins tells me you’re buying the hotel,’ she said.

  ‘Well, not quite. It depends on certain things.’

  Winifred went on with her work.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you, mavourneen.’

  She looked at him.

  ‘Not here. Will you walk with me to the waterhole when the bar is closed?’

  ‘Why can’t we talk here?’

  ‘There’s too many ears.’

  ‘I’m always so tired,’ and she looked at him, wondering what was on his mind.

  ‘Just this once, mavourneen,’ he asked, and she agreed.

  That night she was conscious of being watched as they left the hotel. There was a new moon and Michael pointed to it. ‘If me mother was alive, God rest her soul, she’d be turning over the few coppers in her purse for luck. “Never look at the new moon through glass. It’s unlucky,” she’d say. Brother Henry would chide her for being superstitious. “Bridget Mary,” he’d say, “there’s only the blessed Virgin and our dear Lord her Son. Pray to them for what you want. There’s no such thing as luck.” But then he’d never seen a leprechaun or found a four-leafed clover.’

  His face crinkled in a grin. ‘Do you believe in luck? I do. This is going to be my lucky night.’

  Winifred stood beside him, looking at the water, wondering if he intended to ask her to marry him, knowing that no matter how much she was tempted she must refuse. And even if she was free to marry again, she wondered if it would end up with Michael drinking and her working hard to support them both. And yet there was something so engaging about him. She remembered how she had been stirred when she had seen him coming bare-chested from the creek.

  ‘Mavourneen, I’ve knocked about a bit. Done things I’m ashamed of, but deep down I’m a decent man. Before I left Ireland I promised my mither I’d find a little Irish colleen and marry her and call our first girl Bridget Mary. Well, I’m still looking for that girl and my mither’s dead, God rest her soul. You and me … we could make a go of it. You could run the hotel and I could keep on with my work.’

  His face was glowing as he spoke, his lips parted. She wondered what it would be like to feel his arms around her, his lips on hers, and was tempted to hold out her arms. But she resisted.

  ‘What do ye say, mavourneen. Do you want me to go down on me bended knee?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, Mr Flanagan. It’s not possible. I can’t marry you.’

  ‘Don’t say that. We can make something of the hotel. Of course things will have to change. You’re too easy and that’s the way to ruination. In a few years we can sell out and I’ll take you back to Ireland and show you my mither’s grave.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly. ‘Truly sorry, but it’s not possible.�
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  ‘Without you I can’t run the hotel. It’s so hard to get good staff.’

  As his words sunk in she thought, ‘I know. Now I get a wage. If I was your wife I would be working for my keep.’

  ‘No, Mr Flanagan.’

  He tried to take her by the hand. ‘Mavourneen, I’m tired of being on my Pat Malone.’

  She pulled her hand away. ‘I told you, no.’

  ‘By why, mavourneen? I’m making you a fair offer. You’re not a silly girl. And I know me own mind. This might be your last chance. I’d treat you fair. I promise on me mither’s grave. If you marry me you won’t regret it.’

  She looked at him standing there, his eyes shining in the half-light, his voice low and pleading. She wanted to go to him, to feel his body pressed against hers. To run her fingers through his red hair. She could feel her body trembling. She told herself it was madness. It took all her willpower to turn away. Without looking back she hurried back into the hotel and went straight to her room, leaving the rouseabout to close the bar.

  Michael had gone in the morning without having breakfast. She felt guilty, wondering if she had misjudged him and he really cared for her. But it was impossible while she was still married.

  Michael Flanagan did not buy the hotel. It was quickly sold to a Yorkshireman, Jack Dyson, who asked Winifred to stay on. He turned out to be a hard-drinking man who skited to her about the money he’d made gambling. She did not take to him. Now she was kept out of the bar at night. He brought in a woman with hennaed hair called Molly, who sat on the bar with her legs crossed. She had a room upstairs among the men and at night Winifred would hear whispered voices and doors opening and closing. One night the handle of Winifred’s door turned and she heard a voice calling softly, ‘Let me in, Moll.’ She lay quietly, knowing that the door was locked and she was safe, while her mind travelled back to Mother Sybil’s. She knew she could no longer stay at the hotel.

  Now there were arguments, and fights with broken bottles. Sometimes in the morning there would be men lying in the yard in their own vomit, while the rouseabout hosed around them as if they were nothing better than a lump of wood.

  The atmosphere in the hotel changed. The new publican encouraged the men to spend their cheques, so that there was nothing left to take home. When Winifred protested he said, ‘This isn’t the Salvation Army. I didn’t come to Australia to preach, but to make money. I had to struggle to get where I am and I’m not giving it away.’

  She was certain her employer was serving adulterated liquor, but he made sure she stayed out of the way in the kitchen. And once when he had been drinking and saw her looking at him, he said, ‘Your face would curdle a mother’s milk.’

  His words wounded her and she began to ask passing drovers if they knew of any other jobs. When she heard that they needed a cook at a hotel in Mungallala she gave notice. Jack Dyson was angry, and told her that she was leaving him in the lurch.

  ‘It’s your own fault. You told me I was sour. It’s the way you run this place that’s soured me, taking men down for everything they have and leaving nothing for their wives and families. If you need someone to cook, then put that fancy piece with the red hair in front of the stove. It’d do her good to do an honest day’s work.’

  She regretted her words later because when she left he owed her five pounds, which he refused to pay.

  PART THREE

  17

  FALLING IN LOVE AGAIN

  WINIFRED HAD BEEN SEPARATED from her husband Charles for seven years when she met Ali Ackba Nuby, who ran a general store in a disused hotel at Mungallala. It was owned by Mrs Elizabeth Corbett of Victoria Downs Station, who also owned the Mungallala Hotel where Winifred now worked. In that seven years she had been unbearably lonely, missing her children, though the first sharp pain at their loss had dulled and she had come to accept that she might never see them again.

  Now she felt shut in as day followed day, the same routine of cooking and cleaning, talking to men who passed through, saving money but with no clear plan for the future. The thought that she might spend the rest of her days doing the same dreary work terrified her.

  She found it difficult to plan ahead, thinking that once she had saved enough she could start something for herself, perhaps a place where she sold food to passers-by, but then she knew she would have to offer grog with it and she didn’t know whether she could stand the drunkenness and the fights. It would mean employing a man and she was reluctant to do that, certain that whoever it was would exploit her and end up bringing her grief.

  She was still writing down her thoughts, finding solace in putting words on paper.

  10 March 1915. There’s a hawker who calls here … an Indian. His name is Ali. He comes into the kitchen and I make him a cup of tea. He’s one of three brothers … His older brother came here in 1884 and stayed for eighteen years and then he went back to India and Ali came to take his place. He’s been here for thirteen years. He drives a horse and cart and hawks things around. I can tell he’s lonely. They’re not allowed to bring their wives with them. He comes into the kitchen and I make him a cup of tea and we talk.

  I bought a dress length from him. It’s sprigged muslin. I made myself a new dress on the treadle machine. I patch the sheets and do the mending for the hotel. And I do little jobs for the men — sew on a button, turn a collar, patch a pair of pants. They pay me for it. I’m saving more money. There’s nothing much to spend it on here.

  11 March 1915. Ali came in again today. He has the most beautiful brown eyes and white teeth. He calls me mem-sahib and treats me with respect. He gave me a length of hair ribbon to match the dimity. He speaks English but with an accent — not like Vater Carl with his thick guttural voice, but in a lilting tone. He talked about his home in India and his little mother and his brothers and sisters. I had tears in my eyes listening to him. He doesn’t go into the bar with the other men.

  I watch him sometimes from my bedroom window. He is a Moslem. He prays, kneeling and prostrating himself on the ground. He always comes to the tap in the yard to wash himself first.

  Sometimes he wears a turban and baggy pants and a waistcoat. He looks different from the drovers in their moleskin pants and shirts. Some of them don’t like him and call him ‘that bloody Afghan’. He is gentle-looking and smells of curries and spices. He delivers vegetables in his horse and cart, and spices and fancy goods. He keeps them in a tin trunk. When he stops outside the hotel he lets down the side of the cart and everything is on display. There is a smell of sandalwood and spices. Often I smell it in the air long after he has gone, and imagine that I am in Arabia with date palms and desert, with a full moon turning the sand to silver. I pretend I’m waiting for a lover, listening for the sound of horse’s hooves.

  Next time Ali comes I’ll buy myself a lace camisole. He has such pretty things. I bought a little red wooden top to send to Peter for his birthday. He would be eleven now. I didn’t hear back so I don’t know whether he got it or not. There is no news. It’s like another life. It’s strange to think that on the other side of the world there’s a war on. Some of the men have gone off to fight the Germans. There used to be a German man who came into the bar. He stopped coming after a fight out the back. I don’t know why there has to be a war. The men argue about it and about conscription. Sometimes they get heated and I have to say, ‘Calm down now, boys. You’re not in the trenches. How about a song?’ And someone gets out the accordion and they start to sing and forget the war.

  I hope the war ends before my boys are old enough to fight. They’re half-German. They could be fighting cousins they’ve never met. Ali doesn’t know I’m married. He thinks I’m a widow and my husband was killed in the war.

  It was September 1915 and the hotel was short-handed. Winifred was in the kitchen up to her arms in dirty water, her hair like rats’ tails falling into her eyes, and her face running with sweat. It was the end of shearing and the hotel was full. Though she could hear laughing and shouting in the bar she ha
d made up her mind not to go in. Her ankles were swollen, her head ached and she felt exhausted. For a week she had been run off her feet. ‘I can’t go on like this,’ she told the barman when he came into the kitchen for his evening meal. ‘I’m expected to cook and clean all day and then help out in the bar at night. Once I’ve finished here I’m going to bed.’

  He was so angry that he got up and stormed out, leaving his plate of Irish stew half-eaten. He had been left in charge while the owner was away. Winifred resented the fact that she was expected to help out in the bar and yet the barman never came into the kitchen to see if she needed help. And when she’d asked the rouseabout to bring in the wood for the stove he had said, ‘Get it yourself. I’ve got better things to do.’ Winifred knew she was being imposed on but until she could find another situation she had no option but to put up with it.

  She was still washing up when she heard the sound of a horse and cart. She knew it must be Ali, and wondered why he was coming to the hotel at this late hour. He had already been once that day with the vegetables. She finished the last of the pots and dried her hands. There was a piece of cracked mirror above the sink and she glanced in it. ‘I look a fright,’ she thought and took a comb out of her pocket. She combed her hair, wiped her face on her apron, then grabbed the bottle of lemon essence from the pantry and dabbed a few drops on her forehead to hide the smell of sweat.

  Winifred turned as his shadow fell on the kitchen wall and she saw that his arms were filled with yellow paperdaisies. She took the flowers and put them in a jug of water on the kitchen table, conscious that he had come closer. She turned to face him. He leaned forward and took off her apron and hung it on the nail behind the door. ‘Come,’ he said, holding out his hand.