The Soldier's Curse by Meg Keneally

Monsarrat smiled as though Bangar was joking, but he knew he wasn’t.
    â€˜There’s a lot of land, though,’ said Monsarrat. ‘Why not just move on a bit?’
    Bangar’s face tightened. ‘So what if I come in and take that kitchen,’ he said, ‘and I say, eh Monsarrat, it’s a big house up here on the hill – which used to be ours. Why don’t you just go and make your tea in the bedroom? But there’s no stove in the bedroom, you say. Well, this place is our house. We have places for hunting, places for ceremonies. Every place has a use. We can’t just move on.’
    â€˜We share that, at least,’ said Monsarrat. ‘Neither can I.’

    â€˜Oh dear,’ said Spring, as they approached Government House. The verandah was again empty, Slattery clearly having given up on his haranguing. Of today’s strange events, the young soldier’s reaction had been amongst the strangest. Slattery, too, was on good terms with Bangar and some of the other Birpai men. On one occasion, Monsarrat had come upon a group of them on the beach, being taught Three Card Brag by Slattery, using twigs for their stakes.
    â€˜Are you doing them any favours, introducing them to the scourge of gambling?’ Monsarrat had asked him later.
    â€˜Probably not, but I may be doing myself some, if the lads in the barracks get sick of losing to me,’ Slattery had said.
    While Monsarrat had heard the natives spoken to in the most vile manner, he had never thought to hear such verbal violence from Slattery, and wondered if the soldier’s friendship with Bangar would survive the report of it from the women.
    Spring seemed to be searching for the face of his own woman amongst the mass there. When he’d found her his eyes flew back to Monsarrat. ‘Oh dear. I shall get them moving,’ he said.
    â€˜Could you tell me, Mr Spring, what they are doing?’
    Spring did not answer him; instead, he began to speak loudly in their language. Some of the older women made dismissive gestures at him. One even laughed. The laugh spread amongst them, but then they became solemn again.
    Spring spoke up again. An old woman answered him in the language which sounded to Monsarrat like a cross between the cries of birds and the thud of earth – a voice in fact from this earth, which was not his, but to which he was condemned.
    The women began to concede, rise to their feet, shake themselves and move off. A beautiful young open-faced native in a kangaroo skin and a string around her waist acknowledged Spring as she left. Spring’s mistress. He seemed quite consumed with adoration. If he were a dishonest man, he could probably siphon off enough from the stores to enable him to start farming up here – not an inexpensive matter with all the goods needing to come from Sydney and at a high price. Monsarrat could see that the man would need either to fall out of love or he would live here forever, condemned for his choice of wife by the world. There were probably worse destinies. Indeed, Monsarrat knew there were.
    â€˜Sir?’ said Monsarrat, not having had his original question answered.
    â€˜Oh,’ said Spring, collecting himself. ‘Tell Mrs Mulrooney – and Diamond if he finds out about it – that it was a prayer for Mrs Shelborne.’
    â€˜A prayer?’
    Spring leaned in towards Monsarrat, although they were the only two people on the lawn able to speak English. It occurred toMonsarrat that Spring, and the accursed Kiernan, might be the only two whites able to speak the Birpai’s tongue.
    â€˜They were easing her spirit away from the earth. They are sure she will die. But that means nothing. They , I emphasise, believe she will die. Fortunately Mrs Shelborne does not know it.’
    â€˜Well, she is certainly gravely ill, but how would they be aware of her condition, much less care?’
    â€˜As for the caring, I told you, they