Inside, all the drover could see were moving folds of material. Setting the basket onto the ground, he knelt next to it and removed the muslin cloths that covered the baby. The smell of faeces and urine hit him as he uncovered the rest of the tiny, skinny body, with its layer of smooth, butterscotch skin.
The baby kicked and squalled, its tiny fists punching the air fiercely. Even though he’d seen many things in his time in the Outback, this half-starved motherless child produced an emotion inside him he had not experienced for many years. He felt the sting of a tear in his eye. Wrapping the sheets of muslin around the baby so he did not touch its excretions for fear of disease, he lifted it out of the basket. As he did so, he heard something drop back inside.
‘It’s a boy,’ Moustafa commented as he stood well away because of the stench. ‘What life can he hope for even if he does survive?’
At the drover’s touch, the baby had ceased its caterwauling. It put a fist into its mouth, opened its eyes and gazed up at him quizzically. Drummond started at the sight of them. They were blue, the irises flecked with amber, but it wasn’t the unusual colour that held his attention, rather the shape and the expression in them. He’d seen those eyes before, but he couldn’t think where.
‘Did the mother name the baby before she died?’ he asked Moustafa.
‘No, she did not say much at all.’
‘Do you know where the father might be?’
‘She never said, and perhaps she didn’t wish to tell. You know how it is.’ Moustafa gave an elegant shrug.
The drover looked down at the baby, still sucking his fist, and something in him stirred again.
‘I could take him with me to the Alice, and then on to Hermannsburg.’
‘You could, but I think he is done for, my friend, and maybe it’s for the best.’
‘Or maybe I am his chance.’ The drover’s words were driven purely by instinct. ‘I’ll take him. If I leave him with you, he’ll certainly die like his mother.’
‘True, true.’ Moustafa answered solemnly, relief flooding his honest features.
‘Have you a little water to spare at least?’
‘I will go and find some,’ Moustafa agreed.
The baby had now closed its eyes, too exhausted to recommence its wailing. Its breathing was ragged, and as he held it to him, the drover knew that time was running out.
‘Here.’ Moustafa proffered a flask. ‘You are doing a good thing, my friend, and I bless you and the infant. Kha safer walare.’ He laid a gnarled hand on the baby’s sweaty forehead.
After carrying the basket back to his horse, the drover fashioned a sling out of the blanket he lay on at night and tied it around himself before lifting the baby into it. As he did so, he saw a dirty tin box lying beneath the muslin and tucked it into his saddlebag. Taking a little water from the flask, he dribbled it onto the baby’s lips and was relieved to see it sucking weakly at the fluid. Then he fastened the empty basket to the back of his saddle, mounted the horse, and set off at a gallop across the plain.
As he rode, the sun searing his skin, he wondered what on earth had possessed him to do such a thing. He’d probably arrive in the Alice and find a dead baby strapped to him. Yet, whatever it was, something drove him forward through the white-hot heat of the afternoon, knowing that if it stayed another night out in the desert, the tiny heart that lay against his would cease to beat.
At six o’clock that night, his valiant mare staggered into the dusty yard outside his usual lodgings. Still astride, the drover tentatively placed a hand on the baby’s chest and felt a reassuring if weak flutter beneath it. After dismounting and filling a bucket with water from the pump for the thirsty horse, he unstrapped the sling and placed the baby back in its basket, covering it loosely with the muslin.
‘I’ll be back out to give you some decent tucker later,’ he promised the mare before he stepped inside to be greeted with delight by Mrs Randall, the landlady.
‘Good to see ya back around these parts. The usual room?’
‘If it’s available, yes. How’s it going with you?’
‘Ya know how it is here, though it’ll be a lot better once the train is up and running. Anything I can get you, Mr D? The usual?’ She winked. ‘There’s a couple o’ new girls in town.’
‘Not tonight, it’s been a long journey here. I was wondering, do you by any chance have some milk?’
‘Milk?’ Mrs Randall looked surprised at his request. ‘Course we do. How many heads of cattle are there around these parts?’ she chuckled. ‘Not your usual tipple, Mr D.’
‘You’re right, maybe add a beaker of some good Scotch whisky to that order as well.’
‘I might have a bottle specially for you. Anything to eat?’
‘Whatever’s on the boil, Mrs R.’ He gave her a grin. ‘I’m dehydrated, so I’d like a salt cellar on the side.’
‘Righto.’ She handed him a key. ‘I’ll bring it all up to your room in a jiffy.’
‘Cheers, Mrs R.’
The drover picked up the basket and saddlebag and tramped up the rough wooden stairs. Entering the room, he closed the door and locked it firmly behind him. Placing the basket on the bed, he removed the muslin shroud from the baby’s face. Now, even though he placed his ear next to the tiny nose, he could hardly hear it breathe.
Grabbing the flask Moustafa had given him, he sprinkled the last drops of water onto the baby’s lips, but it did not respond.
‘Strewth! Don’t die on me now, baby! I’ll be done for murder,’ he entreated the tiny being. Placing the basket at the side of the bed, he paced the room, waiting for Mrs Randall to arrive. Eventually, out of frustration, and also because of the pungent smell inside the room, he ran back downstairs.
‘Nearly ready?’ he asked her.
‘I was just going to bring it up ta you,’ the woman said, placing the tray on the narrow reception desk.
He looked at its contents and realised the one thing he needed was missing. ‘You got that salt cellar for me, Mrs R?’
‘Sorry, I’ll go and get it.’ She returned with it in her sun-freckled hand. ‘It’s silver plated, got it as one of my wedding presents when I married Mr R. Make sure ya return it to me, or there’ll be hell to pay.’
‘You can count on me,’ he said, the contents of the tray wobbling as he picked it up. ‘I’ll be down later to take a wash.’