1915. Cottesmore Gardens, London, England
He bounded towards me, head slicked with Macassar oil, wearing khaki trousers with sharp traveller’s creases. I stopped my task and faced a wall, as I did any time gentry approached.
'I'm looking for a manservant. Where is Buckle?’ He tapped my shoulder.
'I don’t know, sir.'
'Damn butler. Who are you? Turn around dammit.'
'The new maid, sir.’
'Do you have a name?’'
'It’s Alice, sir. Alice Trapp.’
With sooty twilight hair and eyes the blue of every warm sky, he smelled of peppermint. I trembled as he moved closer, his eyes never leaving mine. I scanned his fine face.
‘Do you comprehend who I am?'
‘No, sir.’ I swallowed.
There was something about this man, apart from his bearing and beautiful clothes, that made my heart race.
All fiction is largely autobiographical and much
autobiography is, of course, fiction.
P. D. James. 1999
And we danced, on the brink of an unknown future,
to an echo from a vanished past.
John Wyndham, 1951
1965. Alexandra Bridge Hall. Brockman Highway
THE hall hunched in the middle of barren sand surrounded by low dense scrub. The flat and hungry land helped the building appear forbidding. Lights welcomed us as cars angle-parked. Families chattered, slamming doors, comparing outfits and gathering offspring. Women carried plates covered in clean tea towels. Youngsters shifted in uncomfortable outfits and shoes with socks. The sun set on the creosoted structure.
T
1927. Warner Glen (Near Alexandra Bridge)
A dense forest surrounded the sandy school playground. Two toilets,
one for girls and one for boys stood independent of the classroom and
teacher’s house. The school was constructed of weatherboard and
asbestos, with a corrugated iron roof and doors at either end and a
double row of three hinged windows on either side. Hooks on the
entrance porch for hanging hats, coats and daypacks accompanied a
bench and a washstand, containing an enamel jug and bowl for hand
washing. A hessian water container hung on a hook near the door.
‘It’s this country: everything is ready to hurt or eat you. A country
with snakes, spiders and wild dingoes will not be kind to strangers.’ I
looked into Hawthorne’s eyes and saw my reflection.
‘I will never forget the silence as my grandmother fell. She
screamed “witless boy”, fled into the kitchen, poked the wood sharply,
and banged the saucepans so the walls shook. She collapsed with her
fist jammed into her mouth. No one in the family mentioned my uncle
Clarence again. Mother treasured the gold flecks wrapped in a
handkerchief in her pocket. Uncle had sent it with news of his arrival
at Fremantle. He wrote of wealth, of a colony built with bricks, a
grateful population. All wool gathering. Wealth doesn’t exist for
common people. That’s reason for anger, Iris.’
Sunbeams capered on undressed weatherboard.
‘Offered a position at Claremont Teacher College on arriving in
the West, I surmised that the thirty-nine weeks spent learning how to
teach gave me potential. I didn’t count on this hostile environment or
how inadequate teacher’s training is, or meeting you.’
Kookaburras laughed raucously. The lonely sound matched my
melancholy.
‘I’m disappointed my first posting is this back of beyond and not
important. I requested a quick and successful transfer to the wheat
belt. This forest is hostile.
Thirty-three cows, one per family, were released after we fenced our
blocks. They ate poisonous Zambia palms and developed rickets. The
cows beelined for water, got stuck in mud and remained bogged due
to their weakness. Waterlogged for four days, a weakened animal,
covered in March flies, they moaned in pain. I was unable to extricate
this cow from the steep bank despite numerous attempts with
William’s assistance.
William invited Clay to inspect the miserable cows.
‘Can I shoot the injured cow on the bank?’ William held his rifle.
‘I will ask the authorities to give you permission,’ Clay said, his
hands in his pockets despite the blowflies buzzing around him.
‘William will shoot it without permission and put it out of its
misery. To do nothing is cruel. I’ll write to the Minister concerning
what’s happened,’ I waved my hand in his face.
‘The injured cow you keep dragging. That’s yours.’ Clay gave a
guarded smile and raised his beetle eyebrows.
‘Well, Clay. We’re not having it,’ William lifted the gun to his
shoulder.
‘You won’t get another issue cow. Best accept what’s offered.’
Clay lifted his hat and scratched at his forehead.
