Chapter Six – The Postmaster’s Wife

The house beside the post office was the best-presented residence on the street. The walls were of weatherboard, painted cream, with doors and window trims in an earthy red. A whitewashed picket fence contained a garden and patchy green lawn,  watered, Will imagined, by buckets hauled from the river.

An overweight basset hound, lying asleep in the shade, opened one eye and watched as Will opened the gate and entered the yard. Will gave him a wink and passed on by, without hearing so much as a growl.

Jane Kellick answered the door, and invited Will inside. The rumours had been true, at least as far as her appearance. She was a handsome woman – blonde hair tied in a bun, a tidy figure and flawless skin, but there was no hint of flirtation in her eyes. If anything, she seemed a little nervous.

‘You can see Tom Maconsh if you want,’ she said. ‘I don’t think you’ll get much sense out of him, but I’ll take you through, and make you a cuppa.’

Will removed his hat and carried it in his left hand, following the woman through the house, inhaling half-forgotten domestic smells – soap and bacon fat as he passed the kitchen, then mothballs, lavender and perfume down the passage. It was a long time since he had been in such an abode, and it reminded him of his childhood home.

Jane opened a door at the end of the passage, and led the way through, into a bedroom. ‘Feel free to take a seat,’ she said, then crossed to the other side and opened the curtains. Light filled the room.

Maconsh, Will saw, was lying on a single bed, his legs too long for the frame, his feet hanging over the end. The light woke him from his slumber. He stirred and opened his eyes – eyes sunk into deep, dark pits, below a forehead that was beaded with sweat.

Moving up beside the bed, Will introduced himself quietly. ‘G’day Tom, me name’s Will Jones, and I’ve taken on the mail contract while yer laid up.’

Maconsh seized Will’s right hand and gripped it hard, saying nothing.   

‘The poor fella hasn’t spoken any sense for a couple of days, so don’t expect too much. I’ll get you that cuppa.’

When she had gone, Will dragged up a wooden chair and sat down, his hat on his lap. He said, ‘I’m just wondering if you can tell me anyfink about the mail route, that it’s best I know up front.’

Jane Kellick came back with a cup of tea on a saucer, in fancy floral pattern china. Will took it from her hands delicately, frightened that he’d drop it.

He’d barely taken a sip when Maconsh spoke, ‘Doan do that trip mate, they’ll kill ya.’

Will felt the tea turn bitter in his mouth. ‘Who? I heard that the Wambaya can be warlike, but …’

Kellick clenched his fists and thrashed his head from side to side. ‘Not them.’

‘I’m afraid that he’s getting a little over excited,’ Jane Kellick said. ‘Maybe it’s best if …’

Will ignored her, leaning forwards, ‘What do you mean, mate?’

Maconsh seemed to be about to say something, but he was interrupted by the slam of the front door, then a male voice calling. Jane Kellick left the room, and Will heard a bout of low whispering.

A few moments later, the Postmaster, Andy Kellick, came through the door. ‘Jane says that poor old Tom is getting agitated. Probably best if you let him rest,’ he said.

Will ignored him, staring at Tom Maconsh’s face, trying to read it. Was it fear he could see in those eyes?

‘Come on Will,’ said Kellick. ‘It’s time to go mate.’

Will stood reluctantly, and shared one last, long and meaningful glance with Tom Maconsh before Kellick shepherded him to the front door.

‘The poor cow seemed to be warning me,’ said Will, pausing at the threshold to shove his hat on his head, ‘reckoned that that this mail run is goin’ to be the death of me.’

Kellick gave an impatient grunt, ‘I told you there’s some lawless gangs around, and that you’ll need to have weapons handy. That’s most probably what he’s talking about.’

‘I guess it must be,’ said Will.

‘Now, I’ll see you at dawn, the day after tomorrow, and you’ll be all loaded up and set to go?’

‘That’s right,’ said Will. ‘I said I’d do the trip, and I won’t back out now.’

They shook hands, and Will headed outside. He was only a few steps down the porch when Kellick closed the front door. It was a strange thing to do, Will decided, shutting him out like that.

He got halfway down the path, then doubled back around the side of the house, moving close to an open window. Andy and Jane Kellick were inside, whispering again. This struck Will as strange. He moved as close as he could to the window without being seen.

‘It was your job to make sure Maconsh wouldn’t start talking,’ hissed Andy Kellick.

‘He’s as strong as a damned bullock,’ the woman was saying. ‘Every day I have to increase the dose, and now he can taste it – he’s complaining about it.’

‘We need two more days,’ hissed Kellick urgently. ‘Then it’ll be too late for him to interfere.’

Will’s eyes widened, standing so still that he could hear his heartbeat, then risked a quick peek through the window. The Postmaster was facing the woman, his hand gripped firmly around her wrist.

‘I’m not sure that I can keep him here that long without killing him,’ she whispered.

‘You have to,’ replied Kellick. Then, in a more normal voice he said, ‘I’m going back to work. Do what you have to do!’

Will heard the front door, then Kellick’s footsteps on the flagstones as he hurried down the path, opened the gate and headed down to the post office.

Taking a moment to collect himself, Will waited for a few moments, then walked back out onto the path, watched sleepily by the basset hound as he opened and closed the gate silently.

The heat seemed to have increased since his arrival, the humidity building and the first grey clouds skirting the horizon. Will realised that he was sweating, and not just from the temperature. He had a strong feeling of unease. What the hell was Jane Kellick talking about? Surely ‘increasing the dose’ must refer to quinine, or some other curative for malarial fever. But why would Andy Kellick want to keep the poor man bedridden?

Will turned off the main street and headed down on the river track. It seemed to him that there was something suspicious going on, but he couldn’t figure any reason for it. The Postmaster seemed to pretty much run the town, and the only policeman had just headed off for Cooktown with Sullivan, the murderer.

Will forced himself not to think about it, and on the way back to camp he stopped at the Chinese gardens and bought an arm load of silver beet, radishes and melons.

From there, walking along the riverbank, he thought about the new horses and how they could be used. Jim had a good buckskin stallion, named Cartridge, that he had swapped for a lame mare at Mulgrave Station in Central Queensland. The owner, of course, had not been consulted on the transaction, but Jim reckoned that it had been necessary at the time.

The buckskin had needed plenty of taming, but now he was a rare horse, spirited but loyal to Jim, and even after long months of travelling, he was in good condition. Lainey’s gelding was likewise fresh for the journey north to the Gulf, as she’d been resting him for a couple of weeks, riding the spare grey.

No matter which way he looked at it, Will reckoned that John Weir’s stallion should be his. His own gelding was getting high in years, and low on energy, but would still make a good station hack – they could sell him on the way.

The new mare could go to Sam, he decided, and his mount could be a spare or extra packhorse, or they could rotate them. Either way would work, he decided, but he was still thinking things through, when he walked back into camp. The others were around the place, doing things. Sam was fishing down at the waterhole and Lainey was half asleep against the tree, hat low over her eyes. Jim was a little way off, with the horses, keeping the new stallion separate, on a long rope.

‘What did the mailman say?’ Lainey asked, sitting up. Will glanced at her, placed his purchases with the rest of the tucker, then squatted near the fireplace and filled his pipe.

‘He said that they’re gonna kill us,’ Will said.

‘Who’s they?’

‘That’s what I don’t know,’ said Will. ‘One thing’s for sure, I’m staying out of that town until it’s time to go. Full of arseholes it is.’ He lit the end of a twig and used it to fire up his pipe, then puffed a few times through the corner of his lips to get it drawing.

‘That was a damned cheap price for them horses,’ Lainey said. ‘Don’t you get the feelin’ that somethin’ ain’t quite right?’

‘I do,’ agreed Will. ‘But I won’t say no to a downright bargain, neither.’

‘Fine, but did ya even think about what it means to bring another stallion into the herd? Cartridge has had a go at him already. You shoulda known it’d cause problems.’

Will knew that she was right. He’d been trying not to think about the dangerous dynamics of two strong, male horses. ‘We’ll keep them apart as much as possible, an’ they’ll be alright.’

‘What about when one of the mares comes into season? They’ll most likely kill each other. Nothing but trouble, that’s what it is. My vote is that you sell the barsted, first station we get to – make a nice profit into the bargain.’

Still smoking, Will wandered over to where Jim was watching the horses. Even at a glance, anyone who knew horses could see that the complicated relationships amongst their little herd were going through some adjustments. They were all aware of the new stallion on his rope, glancing up as they fed on the grass.

‘How are they settling in?’ Will asked.

‘Ol’ Cartridge isn’t happy, but the new fella is big enough to make ‘im wary, an’ I’m keepin’ an eye on ‘em both. What are you gonna call him?’

‘Dunno yet. I’ll ride him, directly, and something will come to mind. Lainey thinks he’ll be nothing but trouble, an’ we should sell him off.’

Jim grinned back, ‘Oh yeah, there’s gonna be trouble – depends whether he’s worth it, bloke. That’s the thing.’

©2025 Greg Barron
#serialfiction
Continued next Sunday
You can read this, and previous chapters on the website here: https://www.storiesofoz.com/category/will-jones-and-the-territory-mail/
Get previous Will Jones books, Will Jones and the Dead Man’s Letter, and Will Jones and the Blue Dog, here: https://ozbookstore.com/