Clancy of the Overflow by Jackie French

Author:Jackie French
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2019-09-11T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 31

Receipt to calm a lady

Five drops of laudanum in half a cup of water. If sleep is not required, steep chamomile flowers in good sherry. Administer half a cup four times a day.

OVERFLOW, 1881

FLORA

Night blanketed Overflow, made the bush seem evil, impenetrable. But her daughter was out there, stranded in the horror of the dark.

Flora did not sleep. She sat on the veranda, still in her blue and white dress, the hem draggled with dust and sheep droppings. She called, ‘Clementine! Clementine!’ every half-hour, while the men snored in their quarters and even Clancy slept, for he said they had gone as far as was possible by lantern light, and surely Clementine would not keep walking in the dark.

Why didn’t she reply? A snake, she thought. One of the long browns, or the red and black ones she had thought so pretty, till Clancy had told her quietly how deadly they might be. Had Clementine fallen and hit her head? Yes, that was it. She was dazed, or even asleep, but tomorrow she would wake and call back when the men shouted.

But even now she cried into the blackness, ‘Clementine! Clementine!’

The dark trees were silent, the night animals scared by her cries. The moon floated like the lily flower on the pool, but brighter than anything there on the drought-faded earth.

Morning was still as grey as the workmen’s shirts when a horse plodded into sight, evidently ridden all through the night, picking its way by moonlight. The dark-skinned rider dismounted. He took the horse behind the house, evidently seeing to its comfort before he walked back to her. ‘Morning, missus. I’m Sampson.’

Sampson. The swimmer, she remembered. ‘Good morning, Sampson,’ she croaked. ‘I will get . . .’

‘Sampson!’ It was Clancy, already dressed, a hunk of damper and cheese in his hand, a mug of cold tea in the other. He handed both to the native. ‘Up this way,’ he said shortly, striding around the house.

She didn’t follow them. Why should she follow, when the men would soon bring Clementine back to her? She must go and make sure there was fresh damper ready for her, and milk to heat, for Clementine’s throat might be sore after being out all night. At least she should not have caught a chill.

Bread and milk with honey, she decided, or sugar if the honey pot was empty. If the ants were in the sugar again, she would dissolve it in a little milk and strain them out, for if you left them too long, they made the liquid bitter and Clementine would not drink it.

‘Come, Mama, come!’ They should have been leaving this place today. They would leave tomorrow . . . no, perhaps the day after, Clementine would need to rest.

She fetched water in the bucket, washed her face, used the dreaded latrine — Mrs Taylor had not even refused to empty their chamber pots, simply looked at Flora with incredulity when she reminded the woman they were under the beds. She changed her dress, for that was what one did.

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