11

Tipping the currents in every shade. Emotion filled.
Black concealed.

Goolwa, Australia 1887

His white dress shirt was transparent where it clung to his sweaty body. Even inside the Australiasian hotel, where Alistair Harbinger had arranged their accommodation, the heat of this country was oppressive. Edward pulled on his dinner jacket, frowning at the tight fit, the pull of his sweat-wet shirt against its silk lining. After the long few days of travel they had endured since stepping off The Orient Liner he wanted nothing more than his bed, and being close to Rosalind. But he was a guest here and Mr Harbinger, his benefactor, had arranged a dinner party to greet them.

As he descended the stairs from their rooms, his first glimpse of Australia framed by his carriage window, swirled in his mind. Never had he seen such vast tracts of untamed land. Browns and muted greens crowding in beside the carriage, ghostly white trees standing silent in the stifling heat. And such heat! Within the hour he had been forced to loosen his cravat and as the sun rose he had abandoned it entirely, mopping a prodigious amount of sweat from his brow. Rosalind had fared far worse, the heat thickening the air, forcing her lungs to work even harder. By the time they had arrived at their hotel she was white as a sheet. Edward had longed to carry her to their rooms, but propriety would not allow it. He would never willingly embarrass his wife.

He smiled to himself, remembering her faint jest when, finally, he had been able to take her into his arms and carry her to their shared bedroom, ‘Now, now my dear, we’ve no time for that,’ she’d said, smiling weakly. Even in the face of her discomfort it had made him smile.

Pausing on the landing, Edward gazed out at the little town, glowing in the light of the moon. Percy, Harbinger’s driver and the largest youth Edward had ever seen, had met them in Port Victor a larger town to the west set along the coast. They’d changed carriages and been driven along a track adjacent to the beach, the setting sun spraying the horizon with bright pinks and oranges, purple glints dancing across the turquoise currents as they washed against the shore. It was like nothing Edward had ever seen before.

They then cut inland following a local train line through the gums, flashes of red breaking through the tall white trunks. Soon they came to the main street of Goolwa. The journey had taken them from the lengthening shadows of afternoon into the pastels of evening. The Australiasian stood proud at the street’s end, two storeys of stone with red brick edging and a neat wooden balcony on the second floor, an echo of England. As their carriage rocked long the road, dust kicking up from the unsealed track, a discomfort began to form in Edward’s gut. Set against the lengthening dusk, Goolwa seemed no more than a few sand coloured cottages huddled against the curve of the river. This was nothing like the towns of home.

On the ground floor the young driver waited for him. ‘This way, Mr Barrington,’ the youth said and began to lead the way. Edward was once again surprised at the sheer size of the lad and the floating grace with which he moved across the wooden floors. Arriving in the dining room, a large open space, sparsely but well furnished, a stout, red faced man barrelled over to him.

‘Mr Barrington,’ he exclaimed, thrusting out his hand in greeting. Edward took it. ‘I’m Alistair, Alistair Harbinger. I am so glad to finally meet you.’ Introduced, Harbinger led Edward to a circle of men standing at the centre of the room, dressed in distinguished black jackets and white sleeves, drinks in hand. A glass of brown liquor of some sort appeared in his hand.

‘Brandy, just what you need after the heat of the day,’ Alistair explained.

‘Yes, it is rather warm,’ Edward agreed. ‘Please forgive my wife. She is much exhausted from the heat and travel.’

A snigger went through the gathering. Unsettled, Edward turned his attention to Alistair, who smiled at him warmly. With his bulbous belly, stocky frame and the ruddy sheen of drink already showing on his brow, Alistair was not the patron Edward had expected.

A short woman dressed in fine yellow lace plodded over and beamed at Edward. ‘Well,’ she began, glancing at Alistair, ‘this is him, then? I can’t tell you how excited we have been to meet you, Mr Barrington.’ She placed a gentle hand on his arm, a gesture of familiarity and welcome.

She smiled and Alistair did the introductions. His wife, Clementine.

‘Lady of the outpost,’ she proclaimed, patting Edward’s arm to punctuate the words. The title suits her, Edward thought, her heavy face, sun stained and wrinkled.

‘I was so longing to meet Mrs Barrington, these gatherings of men can be a frightful bore. But Alistair tells me she has taken ill, from the heat.’

His stomach clenched, but he forced a smile, ‘It has been a long day of travel.’

‘Don’t I know it, I well remember when we first arrived. I told Alistair to wait a day or two before having this dinner, but, well, you will come to understand, where my husband is concerned there is no changing his mind. I look forward to meeting her, once she is recovered.’ And with that Clementine strolled away.

There followed a cascade of introductions, smiling faces and warm welcomes. Most of the gathered were farmer who had come in from their respective acres to welcome him to their country. Conversation was rapid. The men spoke of places and people Edward knew nothing of, but they always paused to fill him in on particulars.

Despite their apparent good will, Edward could not shake the terror settling in his bowels. The scent of liquor, the craw of robust laughter, the shifting glances between guests; suddenly Edward was five years old again, and at his father’s call, the men blurring from landowners of Australia into aristocrats and politicians of England seeking favour and power. He took a large gulp of his brandy to steady his nerves. Alistair clapped him on the back. ‘There you are, that will take the edge off,’ he grinned, returning his attention to the tall gentleman beside him, Mr… Tailor?

‘Well I won’t be going. It’s a spectacle. It’s not decent.’ A crisp high voice cut through the deeper murmur of conversation that was swallowing him.

Edward looked across the room to where a smaller group of men stood talking beside an empty fireplace, rimed in marble. The man was tall, in a bony way. His jacket, though clearly well made, hung from his shoulders. His thin face was twisted in distaste.

‘What is all my work for, if only to be undone by such displays?’

‘Come now, Mr Merryweather,’ Mr Hallow, one of the farmers beside Edward, called from their circle. The two groups opened and merged like waves. ’It’s tradition. What harm can really come from it?’

‘Harm? You ask about harm? It sets them back. Encourages the brute in them. It’s not decent and I would expect people of your station to be more thoughtful!’

Edward’s mind was racing, the air in the room had changed so rapidly he’d had no time to prepare his senses, and nerves. What were they talking about?

He did not wonder long. ‘Mr. Barrington,’ Alistair began, ‘you must think us rude to discuss politics on your first night here. Please allow me to explain.’

The room fell silent. Tension prickled along Edward’s spine.

‘Mr Merryweather is the director of the Point Mcleay Mission. Have you heard of it? No? Well no, of course. It’s an Aboriginal Mission, on Lake Alexandrina. It’s there to help the natives learn about civilisation, about proper conduct and what not. As you can see, Mr. Merryweather is rather passionate about his role…’

‘I am indeed,’ Mr Merryweather took up the baton. ‘I feel distinctly that you all have no understanding of the difficulty of the task.’ He turned and faced Edward directly, ‘Did you know that most of them still live in the bush like savages? They refuse to acknowledge the benefits and advantages of our society. The children who come to me, come from that! It is a task, a task to put them right.’

‘And we all respect that, Mr Merryweather,’ Mr Hallow interrupted smoothly, ’I just can’t see the harm in a little canoe race, that’s all.’

‘It’s a spectacle,’ Mr Merryweather repeated, again turning to Edward, ‘Once a year they are allowed to race their traditional boats, canoes they are called, long, carved from a tree…’

‘Masterful engineering.’

‘Yes, thank you Mr Hallow. As I was saying, they are allowed to race their canoes. And what do we do? We watch. We stand on the river bank and revel in their backwardness. I don’t care what you say Mr Hallow, but it shows their barbarian, it sets them apart and encourages racial difference.’

The image of a black man in a suit he saw on the train flashed into Edward’s mind and before he could think better of it he blurted, ‘I saw one, an aboriginal man, on the docks in Adelaide. He appeared well dressed, clean, just like one of us…’

That comment was met with a scoff from the room, at which Mr Merryweather bristled even more.

‘Thank you, Mr Barrington. There are some indeed who are very civilised. I am pleased you had the privilege of seeing the good of the work I do…’

‘Oh, come now Mr Merryweather, we all see the good you do, and we respect it,’ Alistair declared. ‘Now who would like another brandy?’ And with that, his patron shifted the focus of the room and brought calm back to the gathering.

As the evening progressed, Edward watched a shift in Alistair’s manner. Somehow, he managed to become even louder, and more crude as the imported wine was passed around. Edward kept his drinking to a minimum, he always had, disliking the after effects from which he suffered greatly, particularly in the heat. Sometime around midnight, when Edward was past ready to head back to his room and check on Rosalind, Alistair slouched down into the couch beside him.

The men had retired to the lounge for brandy and cigars. Alistair smelled of smoke and booze, any semblance of a refined demeanour well drowned in the bottom of the glass of claret he clutched tightly. He wrapped an arm around Edward’s neck and began a long recount of his property and his love for ‘this great land, Australia,’ to which he raised his glass at every utterance. Some of his phrases were mildly poetic and Edward soon realised the man was quoting to him from his own poetic attempts. Mild annoyance threatened to show on his face. The one thing in life worse than people critiquing your poetry was others asking you to critique theirs. He suppressed a frown, working to keep his face and manner neutral ‘“… and over yonder hill I see the top of my own eucalyptus tree.” What do you think, old sport?’ Alistair grinned drunkenly into Edward’s face.

‘Quite elegant, sir,’ Edward stammered. ‘Did you study literature?’

Alistair laughed aloud and slapped Edward hard on the back. ‘That I did,’ he cried. ‘And that is why I know it…well…leaves a lot to be desired. Why’d you think I brought you here if I thought I myself could actually write? Haha! No, no, I love the word. But have not its gift. You, on the other hand, do.’’

The tension that had been building inside Edward evaporated. Once again, with just a casual phrase, Alistair had settled the moment. Edward felt himself relax.

‘No, no,’ Alistair continued, ‘I love this land. But nothing that’s good has been written about our part of it. There’s Patterson’s ’Snowy River’ for the East and that’s a marvel. But I want Goolwa on the literary map. You are the one for it. Barrington’s ’River Port’. Must say it surprised me when I received your agreement letter. Always thought it was an unlikely coup I was chasing.’

Edward felt the older man watching his face. Sensing his probing, he shifted uncomfortably.

‘But listen, it matters not. You are here now. Plenty of time to get to know her…’

Time to help Rosalind heal, Edward thought.

‘Formed the impression when you entered that the country was more you than the city, though our small settlement is hardly much to what you have come from... Anyway, I am keeping you. Please be at your leave. Give my best wishes to your wife. Be sure to bring her down tomorrow and my Clementine can show her around the town. She will probably welcome the distraction of the shops here in the coming months. I will take you on a tour myself, after morning business. Until lunch tomorrow.’

Alistair thrust himself to his feet and waddled away unsteadily.

Pausing suddenly, he turned back and called to Edward, ‘Oh, and take no heed of Merryweather, the natives are fine, placid and gentle. You’ve nothing to fear from them.’

Edward smiled his thanks and watched Alistair walking from him, laughing loudly and slapping other men on the back. So boisterous and loud, yet underneath it all sat the soul of a poet.

Next Chapter: Chapter twelve: Edward’s fear