TURBINE | KAPOHAU

The Bathurst Free Press, 19 May, 1874

Mr Peter Tombs will face the gallows for the murder of a man with whom he cherished such a deadly hatred his victim’s identity could not be ascertained. He was thereafter identified by a neighbouring landowner. ‘I supposed it was Pickles Menzies,’ he told the Post. ‘Couldn’t account for the mess between, but that was his shirt and hat.’

 *

If I am to be honest, I had murdered two men. First was on the Bridle Track heading for the gold rushes at Hill End. That was 1872. I was 16 years of age. It was the year it all went to hell.

*

When a man’s name is associated with a pile of gold it allows him the means to negotiate. He should also have the knack for seeking out fools. But not be so dim-witted they couldn’t fix a trapdoor to fail. I struck on three prison guards. Told them if they fixed that trapdoor to fail, in exchange I’d tell them the exact location of that gold.

‘What if you’re full of it?’ asked the one who was lamebrained at best.

‘Then you’ll know where to find me.’

They agreed. But since I was dealing with half-wits there was half a chance that trapdoor would open. So standing over that drop with a rope round me neck? I shat meself. But I did not suffer the sudden bout of godliness the godless sometimes do. Not this rooster.

When the trapdoor failed on three separate occasions, I thought, fair play to them for being so fuckin’ persistent. Crowd didn’t see it that way, started heckling. Bloody undignified it was. I directed those three guards to Chester Hill to that pile of gold buried under a bloody great sandstone just beyond a row of she-oaks. They were never heard from again.

Having deliberated the appropriate response to such unforeseen events, the authorities decided that due to me young age and the nature of the crime – that being the murder of an individual whose passing they described as uncelebrated, – and, considerations to human decency, my sentence was commuted to a period of 10 years in that piss-stinking Bathurst gaol.

Guard by the name Biggins got me through difficult times. Biggins and I had met a couple of years before, when Father had the barber shop. He was Trooper Biggins back then. Now he careened on a bad hip because of a bullet he’d collected after a robbery. I might’ve been young but I weren’t green when it came to people’s motivations. Mr Biggins never once got me thinking his intentions weren’t anything but genuine. When he saw I was pent-up and unable to attend to the present moment, he filled me cup from his own flask. Sometimes there was more than water in that flask. Had to tell him to ease off because the taste got me keening.

‘Appreciated,’ I said. ‘But it was the booze got me in here.’

If I hadn’t been so bladdered that day, I wouldn’t’ve shot Pickles Menzies’ head off before I got some answers.

*

I was born and raised on a sheep station 50 miles south of Bathurst. My father was William Tombs and his father John Tombs. Family went back to first settlers who squatted the unclaimed land until acquiring a licence granted them full rights. While right respected as a pastoralist, Grandpa Tombs was an exasperating type. He’d stalk farmhands of narrow size, taking the victim by surprise over the shoulder, spinning him on the spot, then laughing himself stupid as the man stumbled about like a pickled chook. Word spread on the Central Tablelands, and soon there were very few men of diminutive stature working the station.

Grandma Tombs was a sturdy woman of Dutch heritage. In Spring, she’d be down the sheds arm-wrestling the shearers. Grandma said she employed Essie, my mother, as a domestic servant for no other reason than helping around the homestead. But here is the truth: even though he was born and bred on that sheep station, my father was no hand for the work. Him and Grandpa butted heads. Father preferred spending his time down the shearer’s accommodation, cutting their hair, pulling teeth and puffing their pillows. And while Essie’s early life had nothing to do with pigs or chickens or sheep, when she proved herself a deft touch for the land, Grandma Tombs had found a decent bride for their only son. Fact that Essie was half pretty were icing on the cake. I was born one year later in 1856.

Father and Essie weren’t mates like Grandma and Grandpa. Essie was a swan in the desert, he was a fish on dry land. I turned out a bit of both – Peter the swan-fish. I had a tense time of it with me father. Here is the best I can explain: Sunday afternoons, three of us made a picnic at Charlotte’s Pond. When Essie went for a soak – leaving me and Father alone – the air turned: minutes of gruelling quiet before both of us spoke at once, some awkward talk that only turned bad air worse.

Essie was patient and never raised her voice. There was a knowingness around her. One that made you feel something miraculous were brewing. Was that expectation gave me steady footing when it did happen.

*

Essie was born Esther Swanbrook in London in 1836. Her father, George Swanbrook –  came from a long line of bankers. They lived high on the hog in a large townhouse in Regent’s Park. When a banking crisis befell England, George moved the family to Australia. They arrived in Sydney in 1855. George secured a position with the Bank of New South Wales. A year later, the family relocated to Mudgee. Essie had a hard time of it there. It stemmed from faith. Essie didn’t like talking about it.

The fact Essie spoke half-posh on an 80,000-acre sheep station in the middle of the Central Tablelands earned her a right teasing. Farm-hands tapped their noses and licked their fingers and called her Toffee Nose. But that didn’t bother Essie. She carried herself steady. Year after next, she put those workers to rights mucking in better than most, which put paid to all that toffee-nosing. Instead, they called her the elegant rough.

Essie had been a talented artist from childhood. She said it was a gift from God. Grandpa and Grandma – who weren’t God-fearing – said it was just her good luck. Essie smiled about that.

Once a year, Grandpa took a few of his best merinos to the Agricultural Society Show in Sydney. While he was in Sydney, he’d go to The Artist’s Depot. Grandpa said he felt a right lemon in places like that – all those arty types talking about colours like they was wine tasting. He’d bring back what Essie asked for: little glass jars of oils paints, rich blues and deep greens and earthy ochres for the hills.

Sometimes I’d hide in the long-grass and watch. Her tongue peeked from the corner of her mouth as she made small, measured brushstrokes. Her landscapes were striking: brilliant trees, their roots sunk deep into the earth, the indents of hooves in flattened grass after muster. She’d tilt her head mixing smears of white and blue on the palette, testing the blend with a filbert brush until she found the very sky.

*

I was 11 when Grandpa’s body was found at the bottom of a water-hole. Head stockman found his mare nibbling at the tussock grass round its edges.

‘Must’ve reared up,’ he said. ‘Snake most likely.’

Grandma said, ‘Got what he deserved. Working far end of the property alone.’

Brave face. But when me and Essie cried in the open, Grandma scampered real quick.

Grandpa was a mate. He taught me how to handle a horse. Had me in the saddle before I could walk. Essie was fond of him too. When he saw Essie struggling painting a canvas on her lap, he fashioned her an easel out of ironbark.

Since they weren’t close, Father was more relieved than sad.

‘Won’t have the old bugger nudging me to work harder. S’why we have farm-hands.’

Let me tell you, far as Grandma was concerned, he had another thing coming. She was just as respected as Grandpa and dug in her heels, kept the place going.

*

One evening, me and Essie were on the veranda watching the sun set over the back paddocks. She was lightly stroking her forearm the way people do when their minds are wandering. I was 12, and fancied meself grown-up enough to ask, ‘what happened when you moved to Mudgee?’

She sat forward, stretched out her neck and cast her gaze beyond the golden glow sprawling over the tips of the ryegrass, like she were trying to catch a glimpse of something just out of sight. A private smile reached the corner of her eyes, like she’d surrendered. She moved her chair so our knees were touching, and took my hands.

Essie was 18 when the family relocated to Mudgee. ‘My father was promoted. The position encompassed the entire Central Tablelands.’

George ran the place like he was Caesar, she said. Him and Septimus McDougal. While George was able to provide Septimus power and privilege, Septimus offered George the one thing George lacked: the stomach for rough-handling.

‘Mr McDougal had a bent for persuasion. Any private money lenders or brokers or merchants wishing to assert themselves were dealt with accordingly.’

George offered services to businesses and big landowners, like mining companies and pastoralists.

‘Most were second generation English or Scottish or Welsh. Protestant…’ Essie said, tapping my knee. ‘Do you see? Young man?’

‘I think so. What if they was Catholic?’

‘Good God no. He made donations to the appropriate churches, and endowed schools that taught appropriate values.’

‘Prodestant?’

‘Pro-test-ant.’

‘What was they pro-test-ing about?’

‘That, my dear, is a long and complicated story.’

‘There a short account?’

‘Hmm … ’ Essie cupped her chin. ‘Grandpa Tombs, he described it thus: some fat King couldn’t be arsed with the Pope.’

While her mimicking Grandpa’s voice got me giggling, I still had no clue. But none of that mattered.

Essie continued: ‘We attended the Protestant service every Sunday, impeccably dressed, sitting at the front so when the collection plate arrived my father could make a grand show of slipping in a hefty sum. Nothing at all to do with generosity. More to being seen as generous, seen as reputable.’

Then a column appeared in the Mudgee Advocate – which was Protestant owned – disclosing Miss Esther Swanbrook, daughter of the esteemed Protestant gentleman, had been observed mid-week entering St Michael’s Catholic Church. Well, it was one thing sneaking off to a Catholic church in Sydney, but small town Mudgee was another matter. George went on a tirade about her associations, how they was causing him embarrassment.

‘Apart from tying me to a chair, what could he do?’

Septimus McDougal was what. Next time she tried sneaking off, McDougal caught up with her, gave Essie a piece of his fist. Right side of her face swelled like a melon.

‘What did your mother do?’

‘Re-arranged the flowers. I departed that very night.’

It was during that time Essie saw the notice in the general store. Wanted: Domestic servant. Hard worker. Unmarried.

*

Things went along alright until the drought hit. Grandma was putting in long days with the stockmen mustering stock to whatever water and feed they could still find. Creeks and dams were drying up and the barley grass was getting brittle. Father did his best with building and fencing repairs. But he’d find a way to disappear and leave the rest of us picking up the slack. Honestly? The only thing he was cut out for was cutting hair and pulling teeth. But then the men left, and so did their hair and teeth.

Despite his best efforts, Bill Corkery couldn’t stop the men from walking off and heading to the goldfields. Some of those blokes got in Father’s ear, Gold’s lying on top of the ground, waiting to be picked up!

‘We’ll be rich before the sun goes down!’ he told us.

‘Off you go then,’ Grandma said. ‘Shut the gate on your way out.’

*

It was around that time Essie started painting at night. She was up in the attic huddled close to the canvas, opening and closing her eyes like she was drawing from memory. While her brushstrokes didn’t seem properly thought-out or belonging to any landscape I’d seen, they were beautiful: swirls of colour, deep blues and purples. Rolling hills and stretches of land and wide skies that went on forever. Trees shimmered in shades of orange and reached up to the sky with twisted branches. Another had a dark patch in the centre with bright edges, another appeared as smoke, with tendrils stuck out like fingers rising out of the black. Made me feel small just looking at it. When I asked what they were, she’d pause, brush in hand, and look at me with a bit of a frown, like she was trying to figure it out herself. Then the paintings went and changed all over again, starting with a single dot in the middle of black. Night after next that dot got bigger and brighter – I didn’t know if I was getting closer to it or it was getting closer to me – until it took up most of the canvas: round and green and blue with swirls of white. Another – and her last leading up to the event – was such a violence of yellow and orange and red, I had to look away.

One morning, before dawn, I heard the patter-pat of Essie’s bare feet on the wooden floor, then the creaking of the ladder as she stepped up to the attic. Trying to be as quiet as I could, I followed. I found her under a dim lamp, half-sitting on the window sill, gazing at the night sky.

‘Come and see,’ she said, without turning her head. She wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me close. ‘Do you see it?’ she asked, pointing.

I followed the length of her arm to the tip of her finger, and a small, gentle, brush stroke, its tail trailing a pale blue.

‘A comet?’

Essie pulled me close, rested her head on my shoulder. ‘Let’s wait and see.’