artlessness robbed the words of any ulterior meaning.
‘I need something to smile at, Fred Waring,’ she snapped back at him, but it was only a little snap, nothing like those with which she had treated him when they had fetched him from the nick, before Sam and the others had cleaned him up and had discovered that he had lost his memory.
Allie helped her to collect the pots and carry them into the kitchen of the rude hut which the men had built for her. A large hand appeared in front of her when she bent over the washbowl. It was Fred’s.
‘Help?’ he queried. ‘You need help, Big Sister?’
Kirstie stared at him. Whatever their other virtues, the men took it for granted that all the chores around the camp—except for the digging—were done by her. None of them had ever offered a hand to help her during the long day which began at dawn and only ended when she was the last to retire, for now that Emmie’s baby had been born, everything fell to Kirstie.
Here was Fred, though, saying uncertainly and looking anxious, ‘Big Sister does a lot of work. Fred help?’
Sam appeared in the doorway, having followed Fred into the hut. ‘Anything wrong, Fred?’
It was Kirstie who answered for him. ‘No, nothing wrong, Pa. Fred came to help me.’
Sam began to laugh. He went outside to share the joke with the others, leaving Kirstie annoyed and Fred puzzled.
‘Big Sister’s got a kitchenmaid.’ Sam smiled. ‘Don’t wear him out for tomorrow, mind.’
Kirstie bounced to the hut door. ‘He’s got more consideration for me than some I know, Sam Moore!’ she shouted, bringing on another burst of laughter. Even Geordie Farquhar was looking amused.
She let Fred dry the pots, remembering what Geordie had said about kindness. When they had finished washing up Fred went back to the fire where Bart and Sam were passing a bottle back and forth. Geordie was repairing some tack.
‘I need a drink,’ Fred announced, and put out his hand for the bottle.
Geordie spoke before Sam or Bart could answer. ‘No, Fred, you’re not to drink.’
Fred’s eyes filled with tears. So far Geordie had been kind to him: it was the other two who had been rough and thrown him into the water.
‘Oh, I do so want a drink, Geordie. Please.’
Geordie walked over to sit by Fred. He took him by the right wrist, and looked hard at him, almost like the mesmerist in the little fair at the other end of the diggings.
‘No, Fred. Drink isn’t for you. You’re poorly, Fred. Drink will make you worse, not better.’
‘I feel better when I drink, Geordie,’ said Fred, pleading with him.
‘I know you do. But it’s wrong, the wrong sort of better, Fred. Do you understand me?’ He tightened his grip on Fred’s wrist and looked even harder into his eyes.
‘Bart and Sam are drinking,’ said Fred in a sullen voice.
‘It’s not wrong for them. It’s wrong for you. Look at me, Fred. Look into my eyes. Don’t turn your head away.’
Geordie’s stare grew even more piercing. Fred turned his head away to try to avoid it, but something drew him back again and, this time, when he looked into Geordie’s eyes, he was lost. Kirstie, watching them, thought that the usually self-effacing Geordie had suddenly become hard and dominant: a man of authority. Sam and Bart were silent and fascinated spectators of his attempts to control Fred.
Fred dropped his head to break the spell which Geordie was beginning to weave around him. Geordie put a hand under his chin and raised it.
‘Look at me, Fred, and repeat what I say. Geordie says that it’s wrong for you to drink.’
Fred obediently began to do as he was bid—and then faltered. ‘Geordie says it’s wrong, but…’
‘No buts, Fred. You understand me.’ His grip on Fred’s wrist tightened, Geordie could feel Fred’s hammering pulse. ‘No buts, Fred, and no drinking.’
Fred looked sorrowful. ‘No buts, Geordie, and no drinking.’
‘Promise me, Fred.’
‘I promise, Geordie. No buts and no drinking.’
They sat there for some moments, quite still, Fred drowning in Geordie’s eyes until Geordie took his hand from Fred’s wrist. He said, his voice low but firm, ‘That’s it, Fred. No more drinking for you in the future. You understand me? Say “Yes, Geordie”.’
‘Yes, Geordie,’ Fred said, and then fell silent, inspecting his hands as though he were seeing them for the first time.
There was a moment of silence. Then Big Sister moved away and Bart and Sam started talking again, and although Fred watched the bottle sadly, he made no attempt to take it, or ask for it with Geordie glaring at him from across the fire.
Chapter Two
Whether it was the session with Geordie which disturbed Fred, or simply the consequence of his exciting day, he was too dazed to know. Only when he went to bed that night, lying wrapped in a blanket under the stars, he found himself trying to remember and recall who and what Fred Waring was, for all his memories were of the recent past. He was not even sure that Fred Waring was his name.
Geordie’s voice echoed in his ears. Did you live in Melbourne, or did you go there because of the gold rush?
How to say that he had no notion of who he was or where he had come from when he found it difficult to say anything at all? What were his first memories? Try as he might he could remember nothing before…and he was back there again, where his memory began, standing in the dock of a courtroom in a place which he now realised must have been Melbourne.
He was feeling dreadfully ill, and was hardly able to stand upright. There was a horrible smell of drink. It took him some time to grasp that it was he who was the cause of the smell. His wrists and ankles hurt, too, which wasn’t surprising since he was in chains.
Someone was asking him his name.
‘My name?’ he said. His voice sounded odd, and his mouth hurt. His lips and nose were so swollen that he could not breathe properly.
Someone said, ‘He’s been on a bender for four days. Constable Brown said that he came crawling out of an alley a week ago, too drunk and dazed to speak. He’s been lying round the town ever since, begging. There’s always some fool to throw him money. He promptly spends it all on drink.’
‘He must know his name. Ask him again.’
Someone took him by the hair and thrust a grinning face into his, shouting, ‘What’s your name, cully?’
‘My name?’ He dredged a name from some pit whose bottom he had not yet reached. ‘Fred!’ That’s it, he told himself. Fred.
‘Louder, man,’ said another voice.
‘Fred, it’s Fred.’
He looked around and the room came briefly into focus. A well-dressed man was sitting on a kind of dais: other men, some in uniform, were standing about. Where could he be? A courtroom? Yes, it was a courtroom. What was he doing in a courtroom?
‘Fred what? You must have another name, man.’
‘Not Fred what. Fred…Fred…Fred…Waring.’
He was not sure that was his name, but it was a name, someone’s name, and since he remembered it, it might be his. It seemed to satisfy them, even if he didn’t feel too happy with it himself.
If only his head didn’t hurt so much he might be able to understand what was happening to him. The man on the dais began to drone at him. Then he stopped. The man on the right, who had seized him by the hair, now took him by the shoulders