Crossing the bridge, p.2
Crossing the Bridge, page 2
‘It would certainly help. It may not solve all of your problems, though.’ He pressed the pads of his fingers together as if praying. ‘You’re a moral, upstanding member of the community, Mrs Guilford. That being said, I don’t know how long the bank can wait for the whole loan to be resolved, given the intermittent payments you’ve been making. We would have preferred settlement after your husband’s death. Is there anything else you can sell, perhaps?’
She fiddled with her wedding ring. She’d sold everything she could—or that she could bear to part with. ‘Jewellery? More stock? I still have several prize-winning merinos. I’m not sure what else.’ Maybe the old motorcycle of Dan’s would fetch a good price, but she wasn’t sure if it was even working. She could take up piano teaching again, something Dan had insisted she stop after they married. But where would she find the time?
‘I have an idea. Something very favourable to the bank’s position on the matter.’
‘Oh? Please, do tell, Mr Treloar.’
‘Who do you trust, Mrs Guilford?’
‘Who do I trust? Well, many people.’
‘Friends or family? From the bank’s standpoint, are any of them generous enough to be a guarantor for your loan? Do they trust you?’
‘Guarantor ...’ That someone could underpin the loan might be the answer to staving off more defaults hadn’t occurred to her. But did people trust her? She had been in town for over a decade, did that count? Poppy’s heart thumped in her chest. ‘My aunt and uncle—they might.’
‘How solvent are they? What are their earnings, property, shares, that sort of thing? Do you know?’
Her uncle’s recent ill-health had forced him into part retirement, and they had money, but not enough to prop up a loan such as hers. They were already paying some of Glenn’s school fees. When the war broke out, the government had encouraged men like Dan to stay on their farms. Keeping the troops fed and the crops growing was as big an effort for the war as marching on enemy soldiers. Dan had told her that a loan would see the farm in good stead for the duration of the war and lest anything happen to him. And the worst had happened to him on the road to Adelaide.
‘I’m not sure ...’ The thought of once again relying on her relatives’ good will—no, she couldn’t ask them.
‘If you’re reticent to ask a relative, may I make a suggestion?’
‘Please, I don’t want to lose Guilford Farm.’ Her hard work, her struggle, her loss, would all be for naught if she had to sell. She would have failed Glenn, Dan, herself.
‘Your neighbour Walter Butcher is a valued customer of the bank.’
‘Walter?’ Ronnie let out a low chuckle. ‘Well, isn’t that convenient?’
Poppy skewered her with a glance. ‘He doesn’t have the means—I couldn’t ask him.’
‘Between you and me, Mrs Guilford, Mr Butcher is quite an astute investor. And from what I know—’ A smirk unfolded underneath his moustache. ‘Well, from what my dear wife tells me, he has a great regard for you.’
Poppy sat upright in the chair, the hairs on the back of her neck bristling at the insinuation. Rumours and innuendo had travelled with her since Dan’s death over two years ago. Why was it always the widows who suffered lashings under the loose tongues of gossips? Even here she wasn’t free, but it paled compared to what she was facing with the farm. She held her indignation tight against her lest she flee the room.
‘I can’t offer any other solution. The extra money should help, a little. But unless you can keep to the repayments, we need to consider other options, perhaps even insolvency.’
‘Bankruptcy, you mean?’ Her throat was thick with self-loathing. She couldn’t let that happen. The town would never forgive her. Glenn mightn’t either. And how could she live with herself knowing she’d lost her son’s inheritance?
‘Not if you sell. I know the farm has passed directly to your son, but as guardian there are means and ways around a sale. A guarantor could serve you well no matter your final decision. Would you like me to discuss it further with Mr Butcher? If you think it is proper, I could act as an intermediary.’
‘I—no, thank you. I’d be happier to broach the subject with him myself. As you say, he is a close friend.’ Poppy’s chin lowered to her chest, unable to meet Mr Treloar’s piercing gaze.
‘Good. That part we can settle. We also require you to reconsider some of your worker arrangements.’
Her head snapped back up. ‘My worker arrangements?’
‘The Land Army girls. What a godsend they are to the district, to the nation even. And they cost half the rate of the men.’
‘Are you saying I shouldn’t hire any men? There are many in the district looking for work.’ Most were returned soldiers, some injured, some demobilised to help with labour shortages.
‘I’m not saying that. Heaven knows some of these men are much needed. But until the war ends, until you and the other women can go back to more—domestic concerns, you might want to be sparing as to who you employ on the farm.’ Mr Treloar took a sheet of paper from his desk and began scribbling. ‘Those Land girls, two for the price of one. I even hear some of them know their way around a bit of machinery.’
‘I suppose I could consider ...’
He passed her the paper detailing several actions. ‘I think this directive will help.’
She glanced at the list. It meant she would have to restrict the men’s work to the most laborious tasks, ones she or the Land Army girls couldn’t do. Walter had already been helping her, but he had his own property to run, and she couldn’t ask too much more of him. And certainly not if she were to ask him to play guarantor.
‘Maybe if you sold the old homestead at the edge of your property?’ Mr Treloar added. ‘You’d only have to part with some of the land, and it could graze enough stock to sustain a small family living. If the war ends soon then there will be plenty willing to take it off your hands. You could pay off the whole loan.’
‘You can’t sell that!’ Ronnie blurted. ‘That’s—well, that’s a special place. I grew up in that old house. I have a say, don’t I?’
Poppy was as fond of the old homestead as Ronnie and the thought of five pounds a month disbursed to a stranger burned at the edge of her mind. But would it be enough to prevent the old homestead’s sale? She tucked the paper from Mr Treloar into her bag and stood. ‘Thank you for seeing us here at your home, Mr Treloar. Your discretion means a lot to me—to us. And we have a bit to think about.’
He took her hand in a formal handshake. ‘Mrs Guilford, people here respect you. The work you do, the hardships you’ve faced. No one can look at you and think you haven’t done your best.’
If those closest to Dan thought she’d failed him, and failed his son, would they really be so supportive?
They said their farewells, and when they were out on the street Ronnie took Poppy’s arm as she opened the car door. ‘More domestic concerns,’ she said mocking Mr Treloar’s deep baritone voice. ‘As if we women will readily wear the yoke again when all the men return. But you can’t sell the old homestead. You just can’t.’
‘I may not have a choice. I sell the old homestead, or we go broke and lose everything.’
‘What?’ Glenn piped up from inside the car. ‘You’re not selling the old homestead are you, Mum? You can’t!’
‘With Walter acting as guarantor, you can avoid it.’ Ronnie tapped her lips with an elegant finger. ‘Something to think about.’
This was a surprising turnaround. Ronnie wasn’t close to Walter like Dan had been, and at times she’d been openly hostile for no reason other than he’d been Dan’s best friend and she and Dan had never been the most loving of siblings.
‘I hope we can avoid it. But I have made no decisions and, besides, we have the money from this stipend now. Five pounds a month goes a long way.’
‘That’s a lot of money, Mum.’
‘Not in Melbourne it’s not. Not that you can buy much with all the stern rationing.’
Poppy glanced briefly at Ronnie’s new outfit. ‘It will help a great deal.’
On the drive back to Guilford Farm, Ronnie hummed. ‘Who is this woman, this Mary McLaughlin? McLaughlin … the name rings a bell, but I can’t recall. And how long has she been taking our money?’
Our money. How strange that sounded to Poppy’s ears. ‘I could ask around, maybe even speak with her. Find her connection to Dan. Maybe somebody knows.’ What had Dan hidden from her?
She chewed on a ripped nail then tapped a palm on the steering wheel. If Walter agreed to be guarantor, the farm would be safe—for now.
Chapter Two
JB Beaton followed Mr Butcher and Joseph Kelly up the Goyders Creek town hall steps. A knot formed in his belly. He was never good with crowds, but caramelised sugar, toasted flour and a hint of women’s perfume were luring him through the door like a siren call to his senses. A pleasant change compared with the stench of belching vehicle fumes, other men, military-grade antiseptic and his own damaged flesh.
At the door, Mr Butcher turned to him and Joseph and tapped his nose. ‘Eat your fill, lads, and if you’re interested, there might be a two-up game out the back.’
JB wasn’t much for gambling, but if his sweet tooth called to him, he’d have no trouble downing several plates of scones.
Inside, the sounds rolled over him. An echo of shoes on the hall’s wooden floor, a clatter of plates and cutlery from the kitchen, and laughter from the gatherings was like a chattering of birds nesting in a tree. It fell on him like a stream of sunshine on a frosty morning, and the tension in his injured shoulder disappeared.
People in their Sunday best moved in flocks between one stall and another. Banners for the Red Cross, Cheer Up Society and the Country Women’s Association hung along the auditorium walls. Sellers and buyers exchanged knitted wares, old porcelain and clothes, rations still tight. If his sister Maggie was here, she’d barter for material and clothes, for him, Mal and the kids. She always had an eye for a bargain.
Mr Butcher pointed to a corner where two women, one older and one younger, served tea from battered old kettles. ‘That’s Mrs Guilford. I’ll introduce you later.’
He’d told JB on his arrival at Butcher’s Rest a few weeks earlier that they’d shoot rabbits and help occasionally with other farm work on Guilford Farm, work the Land Army girls couldn’t do. Mrs Guilford was a widow and alone, but JB had yet to meet her. She looked in her fifties with salt-and-pepper curls tucked neatly behind a blue-and-white scarf. She was plump-cheeked and jolly, reminding him of his aunt. The young woman with her was an absolute knockout. Like Veronica Lake kind of knockout, but country style. Blonde hair and a slim, elf-like face with freckles and sweetheart lips. The kind of girl you couldn’t take your eyes off, the kind of girl he couldn’t take his eyes off. She was a little drawn around the cheeks. But there wasn’t a person around here who hadn’t gone through hard times.
A Land Army girl bumped into him in the throng. ‘Sorry.’ She brushed past him and joined a group of other Land girls dressed in dark khaki suits. Her scent wafted after her like an orchard of lemon blossoms. The girls’ laughter thrummed in his chest.
He turned back to the knockout and kept staring. If he was a bolder man, one with courtship in his plans, he’d wander over, introduce himself and muster up the courage to see if she was interested. But there were other things on his mind and chasing skirts wasn’t one of them. He’d take in the scenery and think about her later.
Mr Butcher disappeared, and JB joined Joseph in leaning against a wall out of the way. Joseph had his hands folded across his chest and began to run a constant commentary on the throng of people weaving in and out between tables like ant lines travelling to and from a picnic. JB’s gaze constantly drifted to the pretty blonde woman. Married? A sweetheart for someone? Someone like her had to have someone.
A poor bastard on crutches and missing part of his leg approached them and thrust his hand towards JB’s companion. ‘Joseph fucking Kelly.’ The man’s swearing caught the ear of a passerby who audibly tutted.
Joseph shook the man’s hand. ‘Bloody hell, Charlie Steele! Shit, I heard you were back in town.’ He cocked a thumb towards JB. ‘This here is JB. He’s working with me over at Butcher’s Rest.’
Charlie’s gaze travelled to the scars on JB’s neck. ‘You served too?’
‘Yeah.’ No one here needed to know those scars weren’t part of his war injury.
‘Discharged?’
‘Demobbed. They didn’t want me back. Told me to go out and find a job.’
‘Well, you’re a lucky bastard. Labour shortages will keep you here for a while. At least you can join the footy team. I won’t be seeing another game.’ Charlie laughed a nonchalant laugh. He nodded towards a bunch of Land girls and lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘At least it wasn’t my prick.’
JB barked out a laugh. The man had lost a limb and his misfortune seemed to have taken a lighter path to healing than his own. Shit, a few bullet holes and an aching shoulder muscle had set off a barrage of nightmares. But maybe Charlie dealt with his demons differently.
‘Shit,’ Joseph said and JB followed his gaze to a woman across the room. She had dark hair and big brown eyes, another looker in a desert of bleak faces. There was no harsh living etched into each crevice and wrinkle of this woman, and her elegant outfit set her apart from the rest of the Goyders Creek locals.
‘What the hell is Ronnie Guilford doing here?’ Joseph said. ‘She’s supposed to be in Melbourne.’
Charlie snorted. ‘Dad says she comes and goes from Guilford Farm. Has left half the single men in the district thinking they might have a chance with her.’
‘Not bloody likely.’ Joseph’s tone was a sarcastic one.
Another Guilford? Must be a few around here. But if she came from the city, it explained the fancy outfit and the bored expression. ‘You know her? She doesn’t look happy to be here.’
‘Yeah, we know her.’ Charlie tapped a closed fist against his mouth. ‘And happy to be here? Probably not.’
Ronnie Guilford’s gaze turned towards the three of them. Her smile dropped and her mouth opened into an ‘oh’. She turned and walked abruptly over to Mrs Guilford and the beauty serving the tea. All three women looked towards them; the pretty blonde’s brow knitted together.
JB itched to know what the story was. ‘You got history?’
Neither Charlie nor Joseph acknowledged his question. Joseph nudged him. ‘Let’s head out the back.’
‘I’ll leave you to it. I’m about to get lucky.’ Charlie set his crutches forward on a path towards a group of Land girls.
JB smiled at the blonde woman still pouring tea but she looked away. He followed Joseph through a set of side doors and sucked in a breath from the late winter chill. From the door, stone steps and a rough gravel path led up an embankment to a cluster of pepper trees. A group of men, mostly farmers and other farmhands, gathered under the grove’s speckled shade. Mr Butcher stood among them, and the few Land Army girls who’d ventured outside stood nearby. This was a perfect spot if you wanted to avoid a crowd, partake in a rendezvous, or lay a wager at a two-up game.
‘You going to gamble?’ JB asked.
‘No.’ Joseph nodded to two men standing apart from the two-up circle. Identical twins, with receding russet-brown hair and long faces. ‘Not with those two swindlers.’
‘Who are they?’
‘The Jennison brothers. Their father runs the general store in town, and the only source of fuel around here. Dodgy as. You best be careful, because if they hear you have any nous fixing vehicles or machinery, they’ll either stitch you up to do their dirty work and pay you a pittance or run you out of town.’
‘Dirty work? You’re joking, right?’
‘No. They’ve done it before.’
Why would anyone put up with that? He didn’t want to, nor did he have to put up with shit like that now Uncle Sid was dead. The wily old bastard was finally gone from his and Maggie’s life.
‘This town doesn’t seem like that sort of place.’
‘What you know of it.’ Joseph scratched at his chin and added, ‘Like everywhere, there are good bits and bad bits.’
A gruff bloke with sideburns almost as big as his head called ‘come in, spinner’ and the coins dropped onto the dusty ground.
Joseph prodded him with an elbow. ‘You gonna bet?’
‘Nah.’ He wouldn’t be risking anything today. He’d witnessed men gamble the little money they had for a chance to earn a few extra bob, only to end up with the coat taken from their backs. And in this weather, so different from Darwin, Brisbane or the New Guinea jungle, he needed his bloody coat.
‘Joseph!’ One of the Land Army girls waved to him.
‘Hey, Dolores, good to see you again. This is JB.’
Dolores’s bright red hair stood out as it was not something he’d seen on the women around Goyders Creek. She had a Rita Hayworth kinda look. Last time he’d seen hair that colour was on a singer at an American United Service Organization tour in Brisbane.
‘This here is Emma and Rosalie,’ she said.
Two women stood behind her and butted out their cigarettes. ‘Call me Rosie, everyone does,’ one said.
Emma stepped forward with a muted greeting and turned to Dolores. ‘Our group leader will have our hide if she finds us out here smoking, you know what she’s like.’
The blue glistening jewel adorning Emma’s dark wavy hair caught his eye. Maggie had something like that, but in green.
‘Emma’s right,’ Rosalie said. ‘If Mrs Spencer sees us … we should go.’
‘Worry warts.’ Dolores winked at JB. ‘See you round.’
A heat crept up JB’s face. He wasn’t used to attention from women. Not lately anyway. Christ, he must be blushing like a schoolboy. A blast of wind tumbled over the hill and through the trees and chilled his cheeks.
An older man playing cockatoo let out a sudden piercing whistle. The men scrambled at the alert and the kip and coins disappeared inside one of the farmer’s jackets.
