drink on you, you little
bitch? You were quick enough to open your legs without it.’
‘Charlie!’ She put a warning hand on David’s
arm and gripped it firmly, feeling the child tense with anger at
the abuse of which he understood nothing but the tone. ‘It’s the
Sabbath, remember.’
‘Don’t tell me what day it is,’ he said, but
the venom had gone out of his voice. ‘Bloody fool of a minister,’
he grumbled, returning to his original target. ‘Getting everyone
stirred up. The newspaper man’s sworn never to darken the door of
the church again while Simons’ there.’
‘He didn’t go all that often before,’ Amy
remarked, remembering the erratic church attendance of Mr Bateson,
Ruatane’s brewer-cum-editor.
‘Everyone hates old Simons already,’ Malcolm
put in. Charlie’s invective against Amy had left him unmoved, but
the minister was still something of a novelty.
‘I’ve heard a few things lately,’ Charlie
mused. ‘There’s some talk that people won’t put up with the
minister if he keeps on with this crap. I’ve heard a few of the
young fellows might be thinking of running the mad bugger out of
town.’
‘I’ve heard that, too,’ Malcolm said, and at
first Amy was inclined to take the remark as one of his persistent
attempts to seem part of the adult world.
But a glance at his face brought her up
short. It held a knowing expression; a glimmer of secret knowledge.
She could be sure of one thing: if there was any mischief being
plotted, Malcolm was determined to be part of it. It was no use
clinging to the hope that he was far too young to get into such a
scrape; his age had never kept him out of trouble before.
3
June – July 1895
Amy no longer had to ask Lizzie out loud
whether she had heard from Mrs Crossley yet; whenever they saw one
another she would shoot a questioning glance at Lizzie that was
invariably answered with a brief shake of the head.
‘She’ll answer soon. She’s probably been
busy,’ Lizzie kept saying. Amy tried to absorb some of Lizzie’s
determined optimism, but it became more difficult as the weeks
passed.
She was fighting an increasingly unequal
struggle against despair when at last came the Sunday that Lizzie
caught her eye as she and Frank guided their flock into church and
gave her a quick nod. The light in Lizzie’s face told Amy there was
news at last.
‘Come around when you can,’ Lizzie said to
her in a low voice after the service. ‘I’ve got something to show
you. Something good.’
Monday was the one day of the week when the
women of the valley never considered visiting each other, but the
lure of Lizzie’s news was too much for Amy to resist. She was up
before dawn to boil up her copper and fill her tubs, but that
afternoon as soon as she had the last of the clothes off the line
and safely inside she set off down the road, ignoring the
bone-aching weariness a day spent hauling water and carrying sodden
clothes had left her with.
‘I didn’t expect to see you today!’ Lizzie
said when Amy found her at the clothesline. ‘It’s washing day!’
‘I know, but I couldn’t wait.’ Amy began
unpegging clothes and placing them in the basket as she spoke.
‘What’s happened, Lizzie? You’ve got a letter, haven’t you? What
does it say? What’s happened to Ann?’
‘Shut up a minute and let me get a word in,’
said Lizzie. ‘Yes, I’ve heard from that woman, and everything’s all
right. Help me in with this lot and I’ll show it to you.’ Amy
willingly took up one side of the large wicker clothes basket and
helped carry it back to the house, holding her pace to Lizzie’s
stolid trudge with difficulty.
‘Such a pile of washing my lot make,’ Lizzie
grumbled, more out of habit than from any real sense of grievance.
‘Why do boys get their clothes twice as dirty as girls,
anyway?’
‘I think they must roll in the mud
sometimes. What does the letter say?’
‘I’ll show you when we’re inside. Four
bitch? You were quick enough to open your legs without it.’
‘Charlie!’ She put a warning hand on David’s
arm and gripped it firmly, feeling the child tense with anger at
the abuse of which he understood nothing but the tone. ‘It’s the
Sabbath, remember.’
‘Don’t tell me what day it is,’ he said, but
the venom had gone out of his voice. ‘Bloody fool of a minister,’
he grumbled, returning to his original target. ‘Getting everyone
stirred up. The newspaper man’s sworn never to darken the door of
the church again while Simons’ there.’
‘He didn’t go all that often before,’ Amy
remarked, remembering the erratic church attendance of Mr Bateson,
Ruatane’s brewer-cum-editor.
‘Everyone hates old Simons already,’ Malcolm
put in. Charlie’s invective against Amy had left him unmoved, but
the minister was still something of a novelty.
‘I’ve heard a few things lately,’ Charlie
mused. ‘There’s some talk that people won’t put up with the
minister if he keeps on with this crap. I’ve heard a few of the
young fellows might be thinking of running the mad bugger out of
town.’
‘I’ve heard that, too,’ Malcolm said, and at
first Amy was inclined to take the remark as one of his persistent
attempts to seem part of the adult world.
But a glance at his face brought her up
short. It held a knowing expression; a glimmer of secret knowledge.
She could be sure of one thing: if there was any mischief being
plotted, Malcolm was determined to be part of it. It was no use
clinging to the hope that he was far too young to get into such a
scrape; his age had never kept him out of trouble before.
3
June – July 1895
Amy no longer had to ask Lizzie out loud
whether she had heard from Mrs Crossley yet; whenever they saw one
another she would shoot a questioning glance at Lizzie that was
invariably answered with a brief shake of the head.
‘She’ll answer soon. She’s probably been
busy,’ Lizzie kept saying. Amy tried to absorb some of Lizzie’s
determined optimism, but it became more difficult as the weeks
passed.
She was fighting an increasingly unequal
struggle against despair when at last came the Sunday that Lizzie
caught her eye as she and Frank guided their flock into church and
gave her a quick nod. The light in Lizzie’s face told Amy there was
news at last.
‘Come around when you can,’ Lizzie said to
her in a low voice after the service. ‘I’ve got something to show
you. Something good.’
Monday was the one day of the week when the
women of the valley never considered visiting each other, but the
lure of Lizzie’s news was too much for Amy to resist. She was up
before dawn to boil up her copper and fill her tubs, but that
afternoon as soon as she had the last of the clothes off the line
and safely inside she set off down the road, ignoring the
bone-aching weariness a day spent hauling water and carrying sodden
clothes had left her with.
‘I didn’t expect to see you today!’ Lizzie
said when Amy found her at the clothesline. ‘It’s washing day!’
‘I know, but I couldn’t wait.’ Amy began
unpegging clothes and placing them in the basket as she spoke.
‘What’s happened, Lizzie? You’ve got a letter, haven’t you? What
does it say? What’s happened to Ann?’
‘Shut up a minute and let me get a word in,’
said Lizzie. ‘Yes, I’ve heard from that woman, and everything’s all
right. Help me in with this lot and I’ll show it to you.’ Amy
willingly took up one side of the large wicker clothes basket and
helped carry it back to the house, holding her pace to Lizzie’s
stolid trudge with difficulty.
‘Such a pile of washing my lot make,’ Lizzie
grumbled, more out of habit than from any real sense of grievance.
‘Why do boys get their clothes twice as dirty as girls,
anyway?’
‘I think they must roll in the mud
sometimes. What does the letter say?’
‘I’ll show you when we’re inside. Four
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