Clancy of the Overflow Page 5

  Ezekiel’s banking and legal affairs were in the hands of an agent and a firm of solicitors. But slowly Clancy made contacts with firms who specialised in the production of fine wool from merino sheep who survived the cold winters and shallow soil of properties like Overflow. Firms who would pay extra upfront to ensure they need not risk buying — and losing the finest wool of all — at auction.

  Only a few blights marred those years: they had no child, despite the nights he joined Flora in her bed. He had not worried the first year — had even been glad, for doctors advised against marital intimacy when a woman was increasing. But after five years, both were careful not to mention the nursery, waiting in the east wing, nor comment on the children of those with whom they lunched, danced and dined.

  Only Ezekiel still demanded, each time his son returned to Overflow, ‘Not breeding yet?’ to be met with a tight-lipped, ‘No.’

  The second worry was Maria.

  Maria had not returned to town after her visit for their wedding. This distressed Flora too — she had been sincere in wishing for a sister. But she had her friends in the Rose Society, the Orphans Benevolent Society, the Native Australian Improvement Society: women in silk and carriages doing good works over tea and scones, or lobster puffs at luncheons, or champagne suppers to raise funds. Maria had . . .

  Work and solitude. She did most of the cooking, cleaning and ironing at Overflow, with help from various stockmen’s wives, none trained in the domestic arts, capable of making a stew but not mixing furniture polish or cleaning the glass chandelier Ezekiel had bought with his first Boer War wool cheque. One of Clancy’s first memories was of it hanging incongruously from the ceiling joists of the hut that had become the kitchen as the house grew room by room. It now hung almost as out of place in the parlour, which was still furnished with the sofa Ezekiel had bought his bride, and the bush chairs and tables he had made himself.

  But Maria had her books, Clancy tried to reassure himself. Maria loved books. Clancy himself had taught her to read, for Ezekiel believed reading was a waste of time. Nor did he approve of the books Clancy ordered for his sister — most peculiar books, admittedly, for a woman, on botany, a strange subject called taxonomy, and volumes on plants and flowers that at least were beautiful, and so suitable for a lady’s library.

  But at least Ezekiel did not object to them. Mostly he ignored his daughter, this deep disappointment of a woman, accepted only as the background to his domestic comfort.

  But once she had returned to Overflow, Maria began to write letters too, sending them to Clancy to post, presumably so Ezekiel would not know who they were to be forwarded to: the Royal Society for the Advancement of Science in London. Within six months, she received her first reply, addressed to M. Clancy, Esquire, at Rosemere.

  A man’s name, or a name that might be a man’s. Soon Maria’s letters were attached to small packages containing carefully preserved plant specimens. By their second year at Rosemere, M. Clancy wrote to at least six men, as well as the society, and received letters, journals that were not about recipes or how to turn cardboard and a frayed handkerchief into a reticule, and sometimes small packages in return.

  Clancy did not enquire further. If this deception was needed to give his sister a small portion of happiness on her vast plate of roast mutton and boiled cabbage duty, he would not embarrass her by requesting an explanation.

  Nor did Maria give a reason for refusing their invitations to visit Rosemere. At first Clancy suspected his father had forbidden it — Maria must be useful as a housekeeper, if she could not be useful with a marriage. Slowly Clancy came to realise that at Overflow Maria could live without her veil, but in Sydney she’d had to hide even from the servants ever since one of the new chars glimpsed her and screamed.

  The third regret was the deepest and the most unexpected: he missed Overflow, even in the fragrant nights in Flora’s bed, where the sheets were of soft Irish linen but no owls boomed in the night.

  He had been homesick at school, but everyone was homesick there. He had not expected to miss the country he had grown up in once he had such a gracious home of his own. Gentleman Once said the bush wriggled into your soul and so it had, which even the almost daily rides with Flora could not assuage, for the ‘bush’ near Sydney was goat and cow eaten, chopped for house or firewood, only thin regrowth trees remaining.

  No great tides of migrating emus, or the roar of flocks of autumn swallows; no wombat scratches in the dark. Only the possums seemed to have welcomed the invaders. They had welcomed Flora’s roses too, till the under-gardener set traps.

  Each time he shook hands on an agreement with a wool broker he smelled the vast flocks again, heard the murmur of the river below the house, saw the rear end of a wombat vanish down one of the holes in the softer soil of the channels. Overflow was his home, even if his father made it clear he had no place there, except for his bi-annual visits to help oversee the shearing and select animals for their yearly stock sale; even if his wife had created a household and social life that surely any man would envy.

  There was another concern too. Ezekiel did not share the details of Overflow’s finances with his son. In Ezekiel’s mind, a gentleman should not concern himself with finances. Clancy suspected that view was not shared by most gentlemen, but Ezekiel’s total dominance of their lives financially was not something he could discuss with his acquaintances. The household bills were met by the agent, and Clancy was paid an allowance, from which he paid Flora’s. But as Clancy grew more familiar with the world of commerce and learned exactly how much — how very much — Overflow made on just one of its bales of fine wool, even he could roughly calculate Overflow’s yearly income, as well as how much the Rosemere household cost.

  The two figures were disturbingly close. Ezekiel, presumably, had other investments — Overflow, after all, had been profitable for many years before Clancy’s marriage. But how much of that had gone on the settlement of the viscount’s debts that had sealed his marriage? In calculations like these too, Clancy was forced to realise that he valued Overflow not just as a source of income, but as his heart’s country.

  He loved his wife. He loved their life. Neither had the thrall of Overflow.

  It was spring of his fifth year of marriage, on one of his visits home, that he looked at the wonga blossom blooming in great drapes from the red gums along the river, the lilies opening white plate flowers at the billabong where he rested his horse on his way back to Sydney, that he wondered if, just possibly, Flora might consider sojourns at Overflow as well.

  Not often, of course — she had her life in Sydney — but perhaps in summer, when even on their hill the stench of sewage won over the harbour’s salt winds and the butter melted in its water-cooled pottery butter jar — maybe then they could stay at Overflow for a month, or even two.

  Flora had been on the point of visiting his home several times, but there had always been a Government House function she must attend, or visiting dignitaries who must be entertained.

  The hard eight-day journey — the last two days of which would need to be by cart, as the riding was too hard for a woman to do in a day — was too wearisome for Flora to attempt it often, nor of course did Overflow have anything like the elegance she was used to. But perhaps she and Maria together might make it a gentleman’s establishment, or at least one in which she would enjoy a few months’ break from the city every year. Ezekiel would surely accept suggestions from Flora.

  He imagined himself sitting next to her on a picnic blanket by the river, watching the swans fly west in a long dark arrow. Flora would love the lambs pushing each other off the rocks to play king of the castle, tails wiggling till the men cut them off . . .

  He dreamed all the way back to Sydney, ignoring the flea bites at the shanties, the flies that crawled over his arms and face, all irritations he was so used to that he hardly noticed them any more. Flora found him bathing off the scent of horse, his clean clothes — city clothes — waiting on his bed, while Sydney — his valet’s mother had had little imagination with names — waited with a jug of fresh hot water. She sat behind the screen as he dismissed Sydney, wrapped himself in a towel and came to kiss her.

  ‘You should have come to find me,’ she reproached him. ‘I was afraid you wouldn’t make it back in time.’

  ‘In time for what?’

  ‘Surely you haven’t forgotten?’ she rebuked him. ‘Dinner at the Huberts’, of course, and then dancing afterwards. Madame Lorenzo is going to sing too. Lord and Lady Catherton will be there, and Mrs Glossop. Yes, I know, she is dreadfully common, but I’m hoping to lure her onto the Committee of the Improvements for Natives.’

  And Mr Glossop was one of the wealthiest businessmen in Sydney. Flora’s committee provided training for deserving natives, usually in the households of the committee members and their friends. Rosemere’s under-gardener was a native called Joe, who had proved most reliable.

  It was unlikely Mr Glossop would take any into his own employ — like Clancy’s father, who did not even employ native stockmen on his estate. But, hopefully, Mrs Glossop would be sufficiently awed by aristocracy to convince her husband to help fund the training of the poor wretches, at least.

  ‘I’d forgotten,’ Clancy admitted. ‘And I stank of travel. You always smell of roses,’ he added.

  She laughed. ‘Silly. None are blooming yet. I don’t believe you know a rose scent from a violet’s. Or a gardenia’s. How is Maria? And your father?’

  ‘Well. Maria sends her love. There’s been good rain this winter.’

  ‘The garden must be lovely then,’ she said absent-mindedly.

  There was no garden at Overflow, beyond cabbages and pumpkins. Maria had planted rose cuttings taken from the plenitude Flora had obtained, but the O
verflow wallabies were even more determined than Sydney possums, and none had survived more than two or three years. The bush, though, had been rich in clematis and wonga vines, and the small green-headed orchids, as well as the native daisies. The thin-leafed early wattle would be blooming soon too. But he did not think Flora would be interested in wattle.

  Flora stood. ‘I’ll send Sydney back in to shave you. I must get ready myself. I hope you like my dress.’

  ‘I shall adore it.’

  ‘It’s straight from Paris. They understand my measurements perfectly now — it only needed the lightest of alterations. Sydney really can’t match Paris. A copy always looks just slightly like a copy. I shall have all my gowns made there, I think.’

  He smiled at her happiness. It was a joy to give her pleasure, Paris gowns after a girlhood of hand-me-downs from London cousins. And yet Paris gowns were expensive and there would be the ball for her birthday next month . . .

  ‘How many guests have you asked for your birthday?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘We will only be forty-six for dinner, but nearly two hundred for the ball. Henderson has promised to force enough orchids for the ballroom and the weather is still cool enough for lobster aspics. Marcelle does lobster aspic so well. I hope the pineapples arrive in time . . . but I shouldn’t bore you with all this.’

  ‘I’m not bored,’ he said. The previous week Clancy had found Maria darning the arm of the parlour sofa at Overflow. Maria had just shaken her head when he suggested she buy a new one. Clancy tried to calculate how many bales of wool Flora’s ball might cost. No matter how much Ezekiel had saved before Clancy’s marriage, their expenses now must be matching, if not exceeding, Overflow’s income.

  He needed to speak frankly with his father, and possibly with Flora too. Explain that their wealth was not infinite, that when Ezekiel had promised her whatever she desired he probably had no idea of the cost of Paris gowns or even that they existed, much less the small fortune needed for a ball for two hundred. If only there was a way to cut down their expenses . . .

  Suddenly the solution seemed so simple he almost laughed. If he and Flora lived at Overflow for three months of the year, it would mean the Rosemere servants could go on board wages for all that time. There’d be less need for Paris gowns, and none for lobster aspic.

  Back in England, families often returned to their country homes for the summer — though their few days’ carriage journey was a far cry from the hard travel visiting Overflow would entail. And surely Flora too would find it beautiful, the glittering river and the pink and grey sweep of a flock of galahs. They could ride together every day, and Maria would show her all the wildflowers . . .

  If they were to be regular, long-term visitors at Overflow, Flora could not only refurnish it, but they might add more rooms — most of Overflow’s employees were rough bush builders who could turn their hand to anything. She could make Overflow suitable for entertaining neighbours like the Drinkwaters, even give Christmas parties, with picnics by the river and singsongs or recitations at night — informal, but surely she would find it fun. Entertaining at Overflow — with no orchids or lobster patties or extra servants hired for a fortnight — would cost far less than their lives here. Maria’s cooking was superb. Surely Flora would come to love the land as much as he did, even stay longer, perhaps . . .

  ‘I wonder,’ he began tentatively, ‘if you might like to visit Overflow? Not during the shearing,’ he added hurriedly. The smell of twenty thousand sheep was confronting even to those who had grown up with it. ‘But for a few months over Christmas, perhaps.’

  Her face glowed. ‘I would love to spend Christmas at Overflow!’ She added, a little shyly, ‘I have been waiting for an invitation.’

  Flora wanted to see his home? He had been a fool. Flora of course regarded Overflow as Maria’s house, as well as his father’s. Like Ezekiel, Maria would not have realised that Flora’s concept of etiquette meant an invitation had been needed.

  ‘But not this year, perhaps.’ Her smile deepened. ‘By summer I may be a little — awkward — on horseback.’

  He stared. She blushed. ‘In March, according to Dr Grey. I suspected just before you left, but didn’t want to mention it until I was sure.’

  He embraced her carefully, joyfully. ‘Champagne!’ He pulled the bell. ‘Though I suppose the servants know already.’

  ‘Almost certainly, as I’ve had nothing but black tea and dry toast till luncheon the last two weeks. I imagine even the boot-boy knows. My dear . . .’

  He realised he was still wearing only a towel. He slipped behind the screen again, in case it was Sarah who answered the bell, and began to pull on underwear. He heard the door open.

  ‘Champagne before we go out to dine!’ he called. ‘Tell Grange the Château Pommery. And a bottle for the staff tonight too!’

  A silence on the other side of the screen, as if Sarah had never heard of such a thing — good champagne for servants — except, of course, for the leftovers the upper servants accepted as their due. Possibly she and Flora were exchanging smiles at the ignorance of a colonial, or the joy of a new papa.

  A child. His father dreamed of heirs, but Clancy imagined a small boy sliding down the Rosemere banisters; kite flying in the park; a daughter, beautiful as Flora, on her first pony.

  He wished he could write to his father and Maria tonight, but a letter might take six weeks or even longer to reach them, as it would have to wait till someone was travelling that way from Drinkwater. He might be back there only a few weeks after a letter could reach them. No, he thought, he would wait until he could tell his father in person, so he could see his pleasure. He stepped back from behind the screen as Sarah left the room, drew his wife to him, this precious, fragrant woman who had made their lives a joy.

  ‘She’s finally breeding!’ Ezekiel Clancy looked up from his roast stuffed shoulder of mutton, crisp potatoes, baked pumpkin and buttered cabbage, then reached over the dining room table to shake his son’s hand. ‘Well done, boy. When’s it due?’

  ‘March.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Ezekiel sat back. ‘I’ll send a note to Marks,’ he added. ‘A diamond bracelet, eh? That’s what you give for the birth of a grandson.’

  ‘It might be a girl, Father.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense. Of course it will be a boy. The first of many, now she’s finally got going.’

  Clancy glanced at Maria. ‘A baby,’ she said softly. She smiled, that crooked smile he was so used to. ‘I’ve been saving lamb’s wool since your marriage. Mrs Fagan down at Drinkwater spins it. Your child will have the softest layette in New South Wales.’

  ‘Can’t wait to tell old Drinkwater next time I go into town,’ chortled Ezekiel, picking some cabbage out of a gap in his teeth. ‘Him and that young wife of his and no young ’uns yet. I’ll have a grandson before he even gets that girl up the spud.’ Ezekiel rose from the table, yawned and stretched. ‘Better hit the hay. Another early start tomorrow.’

  Clancy nodded. The sheep were gathered in the channels that gave Overflow its name. Like most properties, Overflow had few fences — Ezekiel’s fortune had been founded on free convict labour, where even the men’s clothes and rations had been handed to him by the colonial authorities. But now that stockmen needed to be paid — the white ones at least and Ezekiel did not trust black faces — Overflow too was slowly being fenced. The channel paddock that held the sheep for shearing had been the first to be enclosed. Scattered showers had delayed shearing for a week now — wet sheep could not be shorn. The channel grass had meant that at least they hadn’t needed to be hand fed.

  He waited till his father had left — limping a little, for shearing time was a strain on him, not that he’d admit it — then turned to Maria. ‘Will you come to Sydney for the last month and stay for the confinement? Flora will need family with her.’

  ‘I . . . I’m sure she has her own friends.’

  ‘But you are her sister. She says so often.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’ Maria hesitated. ‘Some say that . . . deformity . . . may affect an unborn child.’