Tears of the Moon - Di Morrissey [43]
He leaned over and kissed her forehead, feeling a deep love and pride. ‘You just care for yourself and the baby. One day I promise you’ll have a grand home and the beautiful garden you’ve always wanted.’
‘Let’s start with a roof over our heads first,’ smiled Olivia. ‘I wonder what the little cottage on the farm is like.’
Neither was prepared for the harsh reality that confronted them. The trek to the land they had bought was slow and difficult. A team of horses pulled their wagon along a sand and dirt track and, by following their rough and inadequate map, they eventually located the area they presumed to be their acreage. Some of the land was as described, and could hopefully carry sheep, but most was rough country. Thankfully, the permanent waterhole and creek were as marked.
The ‘cottage’ was built from slab timber and bark packed with a mud made from old termite colonies, with a hard dirt floor and a verandah front and back. Its galvanised iron roof was covered by a thick thatch of brush for coolness. Wooden shutters on greenhide hinges acted as windows for the two large rooms. A lean-to attached to the back had a fireplace with mudbrick chimney. Several pieces of rough hewn furniture remained and the hand of a woman was unmistakable—a dog rose rambled up one side of this sad looking home and brought a lump to Olivia’s throat. She plucked a flower and inhaled its delicate scent, wondering what had become of the family that had started here with such dreams and hopes. She looked about with sagging spirit and wondered if they would fare any better.
‘I suppose we can be glad squatters haven’t moved in,’ said Conrad, desperately trying to make some light remark in the face of this shock. ‘It seems things are not quite as we were told in Fremantle.’
‘Well, we’d better do something before dark,’ said Olivia briskly, shifting the baby in her arms while trying to hide the disappointment and twinge of fear eating into her heart. Using her skirt, she attempted to wipe a thick layer of dust from a stool, and sat to feed the baby. Conrad went to the wagon to haul down the first of the supplies but instead rested his head against the load and closed his eyes in pain and frustration as he felt scalding tears burn against his lids.
A few days later, with the help of the two hired hands who arrived with another dray of gear, things were better organised and Olivia had even managed to prepare an evening meal of bully beef and damper and a simple pudding made with dried fruits and sugar. Roses in the centre of the rough table gave a festive air and the soft glow from the kerosene lantern disguised the harshness of their surroundings. The baby, now known as James, slept in his cradle close to Olivia’s feet.
Conrad put down his mug of sweet black tea and took Olivia’s hand. ‘Olivia dear, I think perhaps we should give thanks to the good Lord for this meal and ask that he bless our home.’ Remembering the simple prayers of his father, Conrad bowed his head and said, ‘Thank you, Lord, for this food upon our table, the roof over our head and for your guidance and protection.’
Olivia whispered ‘Amen’ and thought of the Reverend Albert Cochrane back in London and wished he could christen the baby. While it was a simple thanksgiving she believed Conrad’s dedication to work would see mat they achieved their goals.
But as the weeks went by, and Conrad inspected their land more closely, they discovered the terrain was worse than they thought and would prove difficult for sheep or cattle. The waterhole was not big and a place for a well would need to be found. It was apparent the last wet season had not been a good one. The country was hot and dry and the only things that flourished were the flies. Their first sheep were soon due to