Hung Out To Dry

By Rod Chadbourne

In the small Australian bush town of Manton during the 1880s, thirteen year old Sinead Malone receives a marriage proposal from local publican Karl Unworth, a man with a past and three times her age. Sinead has no interest in men like Unworth, let alone marriage. But Unworth has powerful friends and seven years later there is homicide, the criminal court, injustice and tragedy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rod Chadbourne
• Release date: Nov 9, 2010
• ISBN: 9780980851106

Rod Chadbourne

Rod Chadbourne grew up in Tambellup, 330 kilometres south-east of Perth, Western Australia. After completing a tertiary degree he was posted to teach in Pingelly, another small town on the Great Southern Railway line. During the 1960s and 70s he and his wife spent seven years working in New Zealand, England, Canada and South Australia. Then they returned to Perth where Rod took up a position at Edith Cowan University. Hung Out To Dry is his first novel.

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HUNG OUT TO DRY

Rod Chadbourne

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition

Copyright© 2010 Rod Chadbourne

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ISBN 978-0-9808511-0-6

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Part One: Rural Victoria 1880s

Karl Unworth stepped out of the Emu Inn on a cloudy autumn morning in the small bush town of Manton. He was a big man with a jutting jaw, twisted nose and battered ears. For a few moments he paused to glance up and down the dusty street. Then, seeing that it was empty, he headed for a shack at the other end of town, holding a case in one hand and walking with the swagger of a former boxer who had won more bouts than he lost.

It took him less than ten minutes to reach his destination; a one kitchen, two bedroom dwelling with a lean-to on the front.

Without bothering to knock he walked inside. A dishevelled looking man was sitting in a chair, slouched over an old wooden table.

Conor, what’s wrong? Unworth said.

Got the wobbles.

Thought you might.

Unworth sat down, opened the case and took out a large bottle of cheap brandy.

For a few moments Conor Malone did not move. Then he sat up slowly and nodded interest, his eyes watery, his nose purple and bulbous.

Unworth took two glasses from the case. He half filled them and placed one in Conor’s shaking hand, then said, Here’s to better days.

Conor gulped down the brandy and put his empty glass on the table. Reckon I could go another.

Half smiling, half sneering, Unworth filled Conor’s glass and watched him take several large sips. The brandy acted quickly.

Conor breathed more slowly, sat back and closed his eyes. Unworth gave him a filthy look. Don’t go to sleep on me now. The words came too late. Conor had nodded off.

A look of frustration appeared on Unworth’s craggy face. He pressed his lips together and studied the kitchen furniture: a stove, sink, cupboard, table and four chairs. On the far wall hung a photo of Conor, his wife and their twin daughters, Sinead and Alannah. It was taken in Tralee before they migrated to Australia several years ago, when Mrs Malone was fighting consumption.

At first, the family settled easily into Manton. Christopher Bass-Hooper, the largest property owner in the district, gave them the shack for peppercorn rent. Conor got a job as a builder’s labourer and planted a vegetable garden in the backyard. Father Burke welcomed them into the church and found them some old furniture. Mrs Malone made curtains for the windows and helped the girls paint the inside of the house and the outside bathroom, laundry and toilet. All of them found the warm sun to their liking.

Then the good times ended.

Autumn gave way to winter and whooping cough brought Sinead close to death. It wasn’t until spring that she made a full recovery. By then consumption had tightened its lethal grip on Mrs Malone and she died before Christmas.

None of this was on Unworth’s mind as his small eyes settled on Conor again. He reached across the table and shook his arm. Stay awake, man.

Conor opened his eyes, blinked and yawned. Sorry.

Haven’t seen you at the Emu for months.

No money.

Then get a job.

Can’t. Conor yawned again. Energy’s run out.

Well, time’s running out for me, Unworth said. I want your permission to marry Sinead.

Conor winced. She’s only thirteen.

Fourteen this year. Not a little girl anymore.

You’re asking a lot.

For God’s sake man, think of the benefits.

Conor frowned, then seemed to quickly retreat behind a mask and enter another world. If I had my time over again I wouldn’t get married, he said and looked vacantly to one side.

Conor, get serious.

Alannah’s hard to please.

The strong hand of the publican tapped the table, heavily. You’re not listening. It’s Sinead I want.

I used to be the boss. No more. Alannah’s the boss now.

Where is she?

Somewhere.

Unworth’s small eyes narrowed even further. That girl’s nothing but trouble.

***

The Malone twins arrived at the creek, shortly before sunset. It was a balmy evening and they had the pool to themselves. Only the cawing of a lone crow broke the stillness of the surrounding bush. As usual, they stripped to their under-garments and placed their clothes beneath an overhanging paperbark tree. Then they waded into the cool brown water.

The girls had never learned to swim in Ireland. They taught themselves, in the privacy of this creek, at first crawling with their hands on the bottom, then dog-paddling without support, gradually moving out, deeper and deeper.

For the next thirty minutes they splashed each other, swam unmarked laps, floated belly-up, turned somersaults and duck dived to the river bed, their lithe bodies slicing gracefully through the water they now knew so well.

When the sun sunk below the treeline they climbed out and stood on the bank. They had the same trim physique, the same radiant face, the same shoulder-length chestnut hair, the same way of standing, moving, talking, walking, laughing. To anyone’s eye, and ear, they were identical.

For a short while they stretched and brushed the water off their undergarments. Then they put on their clothes. Alannah donned a bright eye-catching blouse and skirt, Sinead a drab dress. The people in Manton used these differences, in the first instance, to tell one twin from the other.

*

The walk back took the girls along a narrow dirt track through a mile of sparse scrub, tufts of dry grass and loosely spaced eucalypts. A trail for horse-drawn carts ran parallel to the track but the Malones owned neither horse nor cart. Apart from Sinead and Alannah, virtually no one used these paths anymore. They were abandoned when another swimming hole on the other side of town became popular a decade ago.

At the half mile mark Sinead began to sing Cockles and Mussels. A few bars later Alannah joined in. Each time they reached the chorus they sang with greater gusto until both of them burst out laughing.

Do you think we’re as pretty as Molly Malone? Sinead said.

Of course.

So, what man has set his eyes on sweet Alannah Malone?

All of them, Alannah jested. They’d look at you too if you dressed more like me.

No thanks. I can’t think of any man in Manton worth changing clothes for.

What about James Bass-Hooper?

Sinead screwed up her nose. Nah. You can have him.

Sure. His mother would just love that.

*

It was nearly dark by the time Alannah and Sinead reached Manton. The track they used ended behind the Emu Inn, the front of which looked across the main street to the Catholic Church. These two buildings, at the top of a gentle hill, were the first to greet and compete for people riding in from the north. Their unholy closeness provoked periodic protests, but never from Karl Unworth or Father Burke.

With the darkness deepening the girls stepped up their pace. Soon they were passing other buildings that lined the main street. After passing the graveyard next to the Anglican Church their conversation returned to Molly Malone.

I always thought she died of a fever, Sinead said.

She did.

Mr Unworth told me she died of another disease.

Alannah scowled. Him? What would he know?

He said she sold cockles and mussels in the daytime and something different to men at night.

That pig thinks he can buy anything.

He seems to know all about Molly.

Alannah huffed heavily. He makes my skin crawl. I’ll never work for him again, nor should you.

I have to. We need the money.

***

When Father Burke came to Manton as a young man in the 1860s the Emu Inn doubled as a staging post for Cobb and Co coaches on a road from Melbourne to Bendigo. The town had been established twenty years earlier to serve the needs of farmers who pioneered sheep runs in the district. By 1870 the goldrush in nearby areas had come and gone and the coach-line was replaced by a railway that by-passed Manton and ran through Glenwood, a large town one hour to the north. Glenwood’s population then grew to six thousand. Manton’s stayed at one thousand, half of whom lived on farms, mainly small holdings.

Like previous years, autumn had brought little change to Manton. The paddocks remained brown and the sky rainless. Horse-and-carts still stirred up dust on the main street. And Father Burke’s life continued without incident, at least until the first Wednesday in April.

The day began pleasantly enough for the priest. He spent the morning relaxing at his desk in the rectory, cheered by a bottle of imported red wine and the warm morning sun that shone through the window behind him. Earlier, the post-boy had delivered a letter from Sister Bridget with the latest news of her work in Melbourne. Even better, his portly middle-aged body, covered by a black ankle-length cassock, was free from the painful arthritis that visited him most days.

Towards noon the priest focussed on Alannah Malone and his pulse began to quicken. She was dusting bookshelves on the other side of the room. A year ago he would have given her only a passing glance. Right now he could not keep his eyes off her youthful body. He stood up, walked silently across the room and stopped close behind her. Then he reached over her shoulder and took a book from the shelf. The move startled Alannah and she tried to step away but his other arm had already encircled her and both hands were holding the book. With studied ease, he began flicking over the pages.

Alannah, there’s a map here that will interest you.

Each time he turned a page his arm brushed her breast.

I have to go, Alannah said, her voice tinged with alarm.

The priest ignored her and kept turning the pages. Ah, here we are, Ireland. He pointed to Tralee. See this town, it’s where you were born.

Both arms rested now against her breasts. Alannah tried again to twist out of his grasp but to no avail. The alarm in her voice grew stronger. Please. I must go.

The priest pulled her closer to him, wedged her in with his elbows, took one hand off the book and placed it on her stomach.

Alannah, for goodness sake relax, he said, I’m trying to help you.

I have to go. Really, I do.

Shortly.

No, now.

Soon.

Father Burke’s hand began to wander slowly up and down Alannah’s midriff. Her alarm turned to anger. She took a deep breath, forced her hands up through the priest’s arms and grabbed his ears. Then she tightened her grip and pulled down with all the force that her anger, now at full strength, could generate.

The impact on the priest was immediate. He screamed in agony, let go of Alannah and cupped both hands over his ears.

Alannah quickly stepped away. You big heap of shite, she yelled at him, then spun around and strode angrily down the passage towards the sunroom, a room that Father Burke had built several years ago by enclosing the back verandah with weatherboards and glass windows.

Half way across the sunroom Alannah looked behind. Father Burke was following. With her head still turned she stepped forward vigorously, banged her shins against a low table and cried out in agony.

Father Burke stopped at the doorway and sniggered. That’s what happens to little girls who haven’t grown up.

Alannah gave him a withering look. Go to hell.

Temper, temper.

The smirk on the priest’s face incensed Alannah. Looking down at her bruised shin, she saw a walking stick on the low table. She bent down, picked it up, moved to the nearest window, took a deep breath and swung. Glass smashed and crashed to the floor.

Stop being childish, Father Burke shouted.

Alannah turned to face him, her face defiant.

Leave now, the priest said. Or I’ll have you charged with assault and malicious damage to church property.

His threats proved inflammatory. Alannah stepped to the next window and swung the stick even harder. As she did so, the momentum caused her to lose balance and stumble forward. Instinctively, she put her left arm out to cushion the fall, with sickening results. A large piece of jagged glass still in place sliced her forearm open from elbow to wrist. She grimaced in pain but stifled an urge to scream.

Father Burke took one look at the wound, stepped back into the rectory and returned with a towel. Here, use this to stop the bleeding. Don’t move till I find someone to take you to Glenwood.

***

The next morning, under a cloudy sky and swirling breeze, Karl Unworth revisited Malone’s shack. When he walked in Conor was sitting in the same chair, his upper body slumped over the table again, the large brandy bottle lying empty on its side next to his arm.

Hey. Unworth patted Conor on the shoulder. You awake?

Conor grunted.

And alone?

Conor grunted again.

Unworth made a cursory inspection of the shack. Apart from Conor and him it was empty. He did not see Alannah sitting outside beneath the open kitchen window nursing her wounded arm. Shortly after the rectory incident Father Burke had asked Mrs Watkins, the police sergeant’s wife, to take Alannah to Doctor Brownley in Glenwood. He sewed up the wound and told her she would have a scar for life.

The publican’s arrival made Alannah sit up straighter.

Inside the shack Unworth saw his two glasses on the cupboard. He smiled to himself and produced another bottle of cheap brandy, this time from under his coat. I could do with a drink, Conor, he said. What about you?

Conor turned his head towards Unworth, saw the bottle and raised his chest to a semi-upright position. I reckon the sun’s up far enough.

Unworth walked over to the two glasses and poured twice as much into one as the other. He handed the full glass to Conor and sat down. Good health, Conor.

Several drinks later the publican said, I’m about to come into a lot of money, Conor. Not from the inn trade but from my mother. She died last year, in Glenwood.

Sorry to hear that, Conor said.

The sad thing is she never lived long enough to see me happily married. Unworth reached for the bottle and refilled Conor’s glass. She worried about me living alone.

Conor rubbed his bloodshot eyes and remained silent.

She knew I had plenty of mates, Unworth said. But never a soul mate. Marriage to Sinead would change that.

Conor entered his other world. I never went gold mining. Should’ve. Too late now.

No need to worry, Conor. Sinead and I will have enough for us all.

Conor leaned back slowly on his chair, placed two hands on his pot belly and sighed. I wouldn’t have lasted long on the goldfields.

Father Burke will marry us if we get your permission.

Too hot, too hard.

Conor, this is important. Can I tell Father Burke I have your permission to -

Before Unworth could finish, Alannah stormed through the back door and glared at him. Can’t you see he doesn’t want Sinead to marry you. Nobody does. Not Sinead. Not me.

Alannah’s sudden entrance took Unworth by surprise. He opened his mouth but no words came out. Within seconds, however, anger appeared in his eyes and he rose to his full height. Alannah stepped forward and met his hostility head on. Get out of our house now and don’t come back.

Your house? Unworth spat the words through twisted lips. I thought it belonged to Christopher Bass-Hooper.

Alannah pointed to the front door. Out, now.

Unworth held his fire and glanced at Conor. No hope of support there. Malone’s eyes were closed, his head bowed and his face cradled in his hands. The publican fixed his eyes on Alannah. You’ve no idea who you’re dealing with, he hissed, then turned around and strode out the door.

***

Unworth left Malone’s shack angry and arrived at the Emu Inn sullen. His interest in a thirteen year-old was not unique. Over the past forty years, a number of girls Sinead’s age had been married in Manton. However, their weddings were shot-gun affairs to men only half as old as Unworth. At the time the age of consent was not a pressing issue in the district, or across the country. The convict period saw an imbalance of white men to white women and the squatting movement and rush for gold attracted a flood of single men. For a long time, Aboriginal women bore the brunt of this imbalance. But not anymore in Manton. Before the railway was built, they and their families were removed, in ways that people did not like to talk about.

***

By mid afternoon Unworth’s surly mood was gone. He had shared a drink with his part-time bartender, Murray Owens, and eaten a lunch of sausages and mashed potato.

At three thirty the home-time school bell sounded across the town and he crossed the street to the rectory. No one answered him at the front door. He knocked again.

Eventually his old friend, Father Burke, appeared, rubbing his eyes. Sorry, Karl, I must have dozed off. Had a restless night. Please, come in.

Unworth crossed the doorway and followed the priest down the passage to the parlour. It was furnished with an old Persian rug, several lounge chairs, a small table, piano, liquor cabinet and mantelpiece. Some faded cotton curtains were tied back from the windows and half a dozen local paintings hung on the walls.

Father Burke sat down. With a wave of his hand he invited Unworth to follow suit. When they were both seated Unworth took an expensive bottle of brandy from his coat and passed it across to Father Burke. I’ve brought you a peace offering, Father.

The priest took the bottle and smiled. Thank you, Karl, but I didn’t realise we were at war.

We’re not. I bring it on behalf of the Malones, Unworth said, tongue-in-cheek.

"You’ve heard about