A Solly’s Way excerpt

Glancing around the horizon, Isabelle noticed a dark, lonely figure, walking slowly in from the direction of the main road. She couldn’t make out any features through distorting heat devils rising from the sun soaked plain, but it appeared to be a stooped man, pushing some sort of cart. She stared for some time, but she couldn’t make out much detail as the swirls of heat twisted, flickered and danced with the vision trudging over the parched plain. He was about two miles away, so it would be some time before he arrived, but she hurried to be ready for any eventuality.

Isabelle sent the children to their bedroom to dress, then took Landy’s shotgun down from its rack over the top of the tall dresser and eased a shell into the breech, being careful to leave the safety catch on. She stood it behind the open door. This was a precaution, because it was probably just a swagman looking for a meal. There were a lot of them around, nowadays. Still, a woman alone in the bush had to be careful. She wished Landy had been able to leave Blue with her and made a mental note to suggest that they get another dog. Not one to waste time, she busied herself tidying up the place, sweeping the kitchen, making sure the iron pot over the fire was boiling and fussing over the children’s clothes.

She went onto the verandah again and, shading her eyes, tried to make out more details of the lonely figure trudging wearily towards her through a shimmering mirage. The visitor was less than a quarter of a mile away now and Isabelle could make out that he was quite old and stooped, with a white beard. The wooden wheelbarrow he was pushing was piled high with his possessions. He was a rather short man, his clothes dusty, his blucher boots caked with the red evidence of dried mud.

‘Despite his age, he must be fit if he’s pushed that thing very far,’ Isabelle thought.

Anne’s small voice behind her asked, ‘Who is that funny man, Mummy?’

‘I don’t know, darling,’ Belle responded. ‘Just an old swaggie man who needs some food and a cup of tea, I suspect.’

She stood at the door, flanked by the children, studying the old man as he approached the homestead. Landy had chosen a small knoll as the site for his home to catch the breeze and provide a better view. The old man laboured to push the barrow up the rise, giving Isabelle the opportunity to study him. He seemed harmless enough.

His worn suit, complete with vest, seemed quite unsuitable for the climate. It was probably a quite good suit when it was new, but that was some time past. The legs had leather bowyangs tied bushman style, just below the knees, while the boots were worn and dusty. As she studied him, Isabelle realised that he was somewhat different to other swagmen she had met, but for some moments she couldn’t put her finger on just what it was that was unusual. Then she realised it was that he was dusty but otherwise rather tidy and appeared to take pride in himself. His hat was relatively new and unstained and his shirt was as clean as circumstance allowed. He didn’t look strong, but this was obviously a wrong impression, because Isabelle realised that he had not stopped once as she observed him. He had endurance. Under the wide bush hat his face was red from exertion; it was lined and pitted under the dark tan of a man of the road. The beard showed traces of having been reddish once, but it was now mostly white, and was long overdue for trimming. Isabelle found it to be an interesting, reassuring face.

The visitor stopped about thirty feet away and lowered the handles of the barrow, then straightened slowly and with some sign of difficulty. Isabelle realised that he had stopped well short of the house, so as not to alarm her.

‘Morning ma’am,’ he said, in a voice that surprised her with its deep, resonant, almost Irish-sounding accent. It was a quiet, peaceful and reassuring voice. ‘My old back gets so used to pushing old Bertha here, that it doesn’t want to stop sometimes. God knows, I’ve pushed her far enough.’

‘Bertha?’ Isabelle asked.

‘Why yes ma’am, Bertha Barrow I call her. She’s the only company I have much of the time and we have some lovely conversations, Bertha and me. Of course I do most of the talking and she does most of the listening. I thought of getting married once, but I didn’t, because I couldn’t get a word in edgeways. Now I’m married to Bertha I’m catching up on lost time.’ Isabelle didn’t get a chance to reply, before he removed his hat, grinned and went on.

‘It certainly beats putting your hat on a stump and talking to it, anyway! Please let me introduce myself. I am Solomon Buckpitt, sailor, drover, shearer, bush carpenter and miner for gold, opals and other precious gems. Folk call me Solly. I’ve walked all the way from White Cliffs and I’m going up north, to the new Bulloo River diggings. I was hoping for a meal and to fill my water barrel in return for some wood chopping or other such work, if you please ma’am. I can do smithing too, mend your shoes or do a bit of carpentering, if you need it.’ Isabelle smiled, knowing from recent experience that many swagmen who claimed to be looking for work tried hard to avoid finding any. The man noticed the smile and spoke earnestly. ‘I’ve got all the tools here, ma’am. Bertha does all the carrying.’ He spoke very politely and Isabelle had decided she had nothing to fear, except perhaps for the possibility of being talked to death.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘By all means take a rest. My word, all the way from White Cliffs! Would you like a cuppa? Then, there might be some wood that needs chopping.’