CHAPTER 1

Clara wound her way back up the dusty track to her home, HillcrestView. Her eyes were focussed on the dust that puffed up aroundher feet each time she took a step. She was barefoot having left hersandals behind, risking the wrath of her parents who were always warningher about the chance of cuts and snake bites. She ran that risk as she lovednothing more than the silky feel of bare feet on dirt. Her thin legs pokedout like sticks from her faded green skirt and her yellow blouse and mouthwere covered in crimson—blue stains.

She had been picking blackberries along the track, where they grewin abundance to form shady thickets of dusty leaves and thorns. Wholecommunities of rabbits lived in their depths, scooting and thumping theirway around, away from the eyes of predators. Prickly bramble tentaclessnaked out in all directions, even daring to encroach onto the track. Clara'sfather slashed them back every so often, but now in late summer, they wereat their height of growth and production of sweet, ripe fruit.

She had been skipping from one side of the track to the other, followingthe biggest and juiciest berries, swinging her bucket from side to side. Shewas heading back now, as mum would be anxious to make the blackberryand apple pie they were promised for tea.

As she neared the house, the family dog appeared, after happily chasinganything that moved within the blackberry patch. "Scoot, you silly dog,where've you been?" Clara giggled. Scoot, a strange mix of terrier and whoknew what, eyed her excitedly as he hurtled past, heading up the track.It was a hot afternoon, typical of this time of year. Clara took a breather,reluctant to get home, where she would immediately be given more tasksto do. This had been an enjoyable one, out in the fresh air and away fromher annoying brother Peter. She turned and looked back over the vista ofhills and sea.

Directly below her the dirt track wound its way down to the edge ofthe Township of Harrison's Way, which nestled itself between the coveand the hills behind it. It looked sleepy and warm in the sunshine. Shecould make out the straight line of Harrison Street, stretching from thepier to her left, and on to the edge of Town to her right. The pier was thelongest she has ever seen. At its end, a fishing trawler was pulled in tight,as it wouldn't go out again until daybreak tomorrow. She could just makeout the hustle and bustle of trade between buyers and fishermen. Thefish caught in these Tasmanian waters matched the best in the world, Clarathought, mimicking her father's words.

In the middle of Town, she could spot the red roof of her school, aflash of brown river running at its back, towards the sands of the cove. Tocall it a river at this time of the year was a bit of a joke, it was more like atrickle with the odd water hole here and there. Fed from the hills at theback of the Town it could become a raging torrent in winter, but at theend of summer it was quiet and peaceful, allowing the local kids to enjoymany hours of play in its cool shallows. Clara hoped to go swimming theretomorrow with her big sister Frances.

She could spot the prominent bell tower of the Church of Englandrising above the other buildings. Her family attended the Church mostSundays. She could just make out the small room off the back where shewent to Sunday school—but not for much longer. When she turned twelvein a few weeks time, she would sit in the Church proper, with her parentsand Frances.

"Clara, Clara, where are you girl?" The sound of her mother's voiceinterrupted her daydreams. Turning, she walked quickly up the track andwaved when she spied her mother, arms akimbo, waiting on the large frontveranda.

"There you are, come on, I need those berries."

"Coming mum. Sorry, I managed to fill the bucket."

"Good job too, with the size of the pastry base waiting for them." Clarascrambled up the wide steps and handed her mum the bucket. "Lovely.Come on then. Wash your hands and for goodness sake will you get someshoes back on your feet! Not those dusty sandals mind. Go and find someothers. Then come into the kitchen and help."

Clara followed her mum through the wide flyscreen door at the top ofthe steps. It screeched shut behind her, blocking out the hot sun's rays. Itwas cool here, and she stopped for a moment to put some clean shoes on,picked from the line of many owned by family members. The enclosedveranda circled most of the house, built this way to keep it cool in summerand protected from the wind and rain in winter. Half walls of wood palingsmet panels of fly-screen and the sloping iron roof was home to a millionspider's webs and the occasional trailing creeper losing its way from outside.The front door was wide open today, encouraging any cooling breath ofair to flow down the hallway and out the back door. Clara pattered pastthe hallstand which was overflowing with hats, scarves, umbrellas, andraincoats, all gathering dust over summer and ignored until absolutelynecessary. Summer was the family's favourite season and summer clotheswere worn until they couldn't maintain body warmth any longer.

The kitchen lay on the right hand side at the very end of the hallway.Here a window framed a view of the bush, then cliff edge, then a strip ofocean which changed colour as often as the sky did. Today it was azurewith a whitish shimmer blurring the sea and skyline. Helping to washup was made easy with this view and at night-time as the light from thewindow illuminated a square of lawn, Clara could sometimes spy a wallabygrazing on the periphery.

"Wash the berries Clara." her mum commanded as she entered theroom. "Then place them over the apples and add the sugar—not too muchmind." Her mum was standing at the scrubbed table, spreading the pie topout with a large rolling pin.

It was very hot in the kitchen, as the wood stove gently puffed its heatout. There was a delicious smell of baking meat coming from the oven anda pile of vegetables stood on top in pots slowly coming to the boil. Thefire had been stoked up again, ready for the pie. Clara heard her tummyrumble, it was a long time since lunch. "Stop daydreaming Clara, andhelp," her mum chastised. "I swear you're only tuned in to us half the day.Then you can lay the table when I'm finished."

There was never a dull moment here. The hub of the household, thekitchen was a production line of food. In between meals the ironing clothwas spread over the table and Clara helped with the easier things likehankies and pillowslips. With four children and two adults in the family,washing mounted up daily and most everything demanded a press.

It was almost time for the family to sit down to tea. Clara busied herselfwith setting the table, remembering to place the condiments and the slicesof bread in the middle. The tablecloth was fresh and on impulse, she ranoutside and picked some roses. As she was placing them onto the table,she heard the back fly-screen door slam. "How's my pretty Clara doing?"her dad shouted, as he burst into the room. Larger than life, Frederickwas slightly deaf, although he wouldn't admit it. Everything he said wasamplified and at times it got on everyone's nerves. But today, Clara didn'tcare—to be called pretty was enough to forgive him anything. "Now thenpoppet, where's your mum then eh?"

"I'm here Fred," Mary said appearing from behind the pantry door.She bustled over to check the pie. "Mmm, nearly ready."

Clara could hear the sizzle of blackberry juices escaping the pastryedges. Oh my I'm hungry now. Where are the others? Hurry up wherever youare, I want to eat!

"Are we expecting Mark home tonight then?" Fred asked Mary. Theirson worked as a builder's apprentice in St Helens, a large seaside port abouttwenty-five miles to the north of Harrison's Way. He boarded with Fred'sbrother, but came home most weekends with Mr. McCarthy, who alsoworked in St. Helens during the week.

Work was scarce. The world wide depression which began after thestock market crash in nineteen twenty-nine, had robbed many a localfamily of their savings and income. A person took a job wherever andwhatever it was to make ends meet these days.

"Honestly don't know love. If he is, he'll be in late. We'll eat longbefore then, don't worry!" Fred had a reputation for enjoying his food andit showed in his portly frame which matched his hearty voice and laugh."Clara, you'd best round up your sister and brother then. Go on now."

Clara shot out of the kitchen and through the back door. She expectedto find Frances here, taking care of their brother Peter. Although Peter wasseven, he was still called `baby brother', a name he was baulking at now.

There they were, sitting in the shade of the large gum tree at thebottom of the garden. Last year, to practice his skills, Mark had built aseat from sawmill remnants, and then painted it a rather bright green withsome discarded paint from work. A few cushions and an old blanket madeit a most comfortable place to relax and read, or sew, or just daydream ifthere was ever time. "Tea's up you two," Clara shouted. "Come on, I'mstarving."

"Alright Miss bossy boots," Frances retorted.

Peter laughed. "Bossy boots, bossy boots," he chanted, as he and Scootran past her and into the house.

Frances gathered her books and sandals then followed at a moreleisurely pace. There were three years between the girls, making quite adifference between their maturity and behaviour. Whereas Frances wasprim and proper in her demeanour, Clara was a dreamy scatter-brainedchild.

Peter reappeared at the kitchen door, pushing Scoot outside. "Comeon will you? Let's eat!"

"For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us trulythankful," their father prayed. "Right-ho, tuck in, and remember, thereare lots of people doing it tough out there, so I want to see empty plateswhen you've finished."

"Yes dad," they chorused.

Amid the clatter of plates and the requests for this and that, Marytook a moment to relax. She looked around at her family and once againthanked the heavens for what they had. Australia had pulled in its beltlike the rest of the world, in order to get through some hard times. Thisdepression had been going on since the stock market crash in nineteentwenty-nine and here they were in nineteen thirty-seven! The daily paperswrote of terrible conditions in other countries like America and England.All seemed to be worse off than Australia, she noted.

She felt safe here, in this little backwater town in Tasmania, Australia'sonly island State. The population though small, pulled together and helpedothers out when needed. Her family was luckier than many others. Fredwas the local School Teacher, so at least he had a job and an income andMark had landed a decent apprenticeship with a secure career in front ofhim, provided he stuck to it. Frances was bright and loved to learn butClara—ah her little dreamer! Still, she's young, Mary thought, plenty of timeto improve. Her eyes rested on Peter's face, cute as a button with a mop ofblond hair falling over one eye. Time for a haircut. Right, that's enough ofthe soppy stuff, she sighed, and got up to cut the pie.

* * *

At about eight o'clock that night Mark walked up the track. Scootperformed acrobatics around his ankles, delighted to welcome him home.It was still daylight, but the sun had gone down below the skyline. A gentlebreeze had sprung up, and the family were enjoying the cool of the porchnear the front door.

"Mark! Welcome home," Mary shouted, rising to welcome him in.

"Mum, dad, glad to be home." he said.

"Have you got me a present?" Peter asked.

Fred cuffed him behind his ear. "Don't be cheeky, your brother's barelyin the door."

It was Mark's habit to bring Peter something from his work or a localshop each time he came home. He was slowly running out of cheap ideasthough, so would soon have to explain the meaning of money to his littlebrother. "Nothing much baby brother." Mark said, sliding his haversacoff his shoulders.

"Don't call me that!" Peter shouted, running at Mark's knees, armsflailing.

"Peter, behave or go to your room!" Fred boomed. "Here, sit downson." Mark pulled up a wicker chair and sank gratefully into its depths.Mary scuttled off to the kitchen to reheat some tea for her boy. "Tell meabout your week then," Fred said. Mark would have preferred to just sitquietly for a while, but rallied around to fill his dad in on the goings onfrom St. Helens and the building trade.

Mary could hear them chatter as she took the prepared plate piled highwith food out of the cooling stove, as the fire had now burned out. As shestood up, she spotted movement outside. Funny, she thought, everyone's outthe front. She peered through the glass into the increasing gloom and sawsomething move again, down towards the scrub. Could be a wallaby, shespeculated. "Fred," she called. "Come here." As her voice rose, so did thefigure of a man, outlined against the dulling skyline. Mary shrieked andfell back against a kitchen chair. Fred tumbled through the doorway andScoot shot around the side of the house to pursue his prey.

The man looked terrified as Scoot latched onto his ankle. Mary andFred scrambled out of the back door and around to the kitchen window."Scoot, stop that," Fred yelled. "Easy mate, stand still and I'll get him off.Scoot you buggar, let him go!" A swift kick up Scoot's backside saw himlet go of the man, who was wild eyed and trembling. How could such a littledog make someone so frightened? Fred wondered. "Now then cobber, calmdown and we'll sort this out."

"I wasn't doing any harm," the man said shakily. "I was trying to getto the lighthouse. Took a wrong turn on the track is all. Sorry missus, sir.I'll go now." He began to back off, but as soon as he moved, Scoot wasin for the chase again. He stood stock still, looking more frightened thanever. "Get him away from me will you? I can't abide dogs."

What a to-do, Fred thought. "OK mate, give us a minute and I'll gethim inside. Please, wait here with the wife. I'll come back and have a chatwith you if you don't mind. See what we can do to help maybe." Fred wasa bit suspicious of the man's story. The track he was referring to was a gooddistance away, winding along the cliff face. The man was within theirboundary fence line too. So his story didn't quite add up.

The depression had created a community of swagmen—unemployedmen, who travelled the State looking for work—their few belongingswrapped in a blanket, (a swag) that they threw across their shoulders whenwalking. These men would do anything for a quick shilling or two. Theywould also steal if they were desperate.

The family had had many swagmen pass their way over the past years.Where possible, they had helped them out with food or clothing. In returnmany a good man had chopped and stacked wood, mown the grass, andhelped pick fruit. Mary was generous in her assistance too and word spreadwithin the network of swagmen, that Hillcrest View was a good place totry their luck. But this man hadn't come to the back door like the others,so what was he up to?

When Fred returned, he invited the man to join him on the seat underthe gum tree. Mary went inside to prepare him a plate of left-over's. "Nowmate, what's the story and tell me the truth, you hear?" Fred stated.

"I was heading for the lighthouse like I said, Mister." The lighthousewas perched on the cliffs some distance away, at the end of a track to theleft of their house. It wasn't manned, so swagmen used the store room at itsbase as a meeting place, and a place to sleep if nothing more comfortablewas available.

No railway ran through this part of the State, and the nearest lineended at St Marys a good twenty miles away. Men had to walk from there,trawling the local farms and orchards for work. The fishing industry usedmany of them for the hard labour needed to work the boats, but somemen lacked sea-legs. By the time they had walked the winding coast road,done the rounds and exhausted their options, they would hole up at thelighthouse for a couple of days rest, then move on.

"I haven't been this way before," the swagman continued. "Got lostcoming up the trail. Saw the light and thought I'd investigate. When Isaw your Missus in the kitchen, I ducked. Didn't want to scare her. I'mnot that pretty a sight you know?" he laughed, conscious of his ragged anddirty appearance.

Fred relaxed a bit. The man's story was feasible, though on closerinspection he looked more like a lad. He held out his hand. "FredRichardson. And you are?"

The man grinned and reached out to shake Fred's hand. "Jim Mathers,sir. From Derwent Bridge."

"Good God man, you're a long way from home." Derwent Bridge wasa dot on the map, way over to the south of Tasmania in the heart of thewilderness. It was a stop over station on the Lyell Highway, which ran fromStrahan to Hobart. "What are you doing in this neck of the woods?"

"No work there sir. Fishing and hunting are paying nothing at present.Everyone's doing woodcutting so no joy there. Got no family to help meout, so I had to move. I was only renting a hut of sorts. Couldn't pay therent, so, here I am."

"What have you been doing for work then Jim?"

"This and that. I can cut timber with my eyes shut!" he chortled. "Justarrived here today, so thought I'd check out the local sawmill I've heardabout."

(Continues...)