Free Orphans of the Storm by Katie Flynn Page B

a strong young stockman taken by a crocodile last year, when the river had been in flood, and she knew she would never forget it. The man had been fishing, standing on a rock only a foot or two from the shore, and she had been staring at him as he wound in his line. There had been a splash, the beginnings of a scream, a turbulence in the swirling water, and then . . . nothing. Other men fishing had fled for the bank and it had been one of them who had answered her frantic queries. ‘It were crocodile, missus,’ he had said, grabbing her arm urgently. ‘Come away from river, missus, in case there are others . . .’
    So now Nancy knew what Andy meant when he said he was going egg hunting. The big crocodiles came ashore in the wet and dug themselves ‘nests’ in the mud which fringed the lagoons formed by the flood water. They laid their eggs there, and although the floods would have begun to recede by the time the eggs hatched and the baby crocodiles emerged, there would still be plenty of water for the young crocodiles to make their way back to the river. Andy and the other men would visit the places where they knew the crocodiles lay up to smash the eggs and kill any young already around. If they had not, life on the Walleroo would have been more dangerous than it already was, but even so, Nancy hated it when the men went egg hunting. Andy had assured her many times that crocodiles had no motherly instincts; they simply laid their eggs and then went back to the river, never to return, but she always had the nasty, niggling feeling that one day a furious mother crocodile would come back to examine her brood and discover Andy, Clive and the others in their destructive work. But it would never do to say so; instead, she asked him if bacon and beans would do for breakfast since the hens laid almost no eggs in the wet. Andy said that bacon and beans would be fine and he hitched himself on to one of the work counters and began wielding the opener on a can of beans whilst Nancy cut half a dozen thick rashers off the joint.
    She was just beginning to fry them in the big iron pan when she felt the first warning stab of pain in the small of her back. She said nothing, but she must have stiffened because Andy said at once: ‘What’s the matter, hon? Did you splash yourself with hot fat? If so, I’ll watch the pan while you dip the burn in a bucket of water.’
    I must have jumped as well, Nancy thought remorsefully, turning to assure Andy that she was just fine. There was no point in alerting him yet. He needed to destroy the crocodile eggs and the pain might be a false alarm. She began to lay the cooked rashers on a dinner plate, then tipped the can of beans into another pan and put that over the heat. ‘I wonder if Pete’s awake yet?’ she asked idly, gently stirring the beans so that they did not stick to the bottom of the pan. ‘If so, I’ll put some porridge on.’
    ‘I reckon he’ll be up and doing,’ Andy said, as Nancy tipped the beans on to his plate. ‘You start the porridge off and I’ll take this across to the living room and check on Pete and Aggie for you.’
    Aggie was a healthy young Aboriginal woman who was a great comfort to Nancy. She had a small daughter of her own named Nellie, but her husband had gone off on walkabout when Nellie, now eight, had been a year old, and had never returned. Aggie was strong and attractive, but she had never wanted another man in her life and was happy to look after little Pete and to help Nancy in the house. She and Nellie shared Pete’s room, as would the new baby when it arrived, and Nancy trusted the younger woman completely, knowing Aggie would die in defence of the two children, should danger threaten them.
    ‘Missus! The boss says to tell you Aggie and Pete is up an’ doing.’
    Nancy swung round and smiled at the big woman almost blocking the doorway. Violet was about fifty years old – none of the Aborigines knew their exact ages – and was another trusted