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Praise for Skins ‘Skins is a deserving winner of The Australian/Vogel Literary Award for 2001 . . . Hay has created strong characters who have depth and lessons for the 21st century. A young writer to watch.’ The Press, Christchurch ‘In 1802, Flinders’s landscape artist William Westall drew a romantic pencil sketch of an uninhabited middle island that makes it look Arcadian. Hay’s achievement lies in populating the same place with characters, based on history, who transformed a panorama of paradise into hell on earth.’ The Weekend Australian ‘The great strength of Hay’s writing is its visceral quality: the detail with which she describes Dorothea kneading dough on roughly cured kangaroo skin; the misery of the cold kept at bay only by fire and insect-ridden skins; and the blood-splattered brutality of hunting expeditions for baby seal skins. If the drama and palpability of these scenes can at times seem overwhelming, their power is to immerse the reader in the rawness of Dorothea’s experience.’ Australian Book Review ‘Set in a world of desperation, squalor and violence, Skins combines a delicate feel for human character differences in contrast with the raw strength needed for survival in a brutal and sometimes brutish community.’ Katherine Cummings, Sydney Morning Herald

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‘Hay is a tactile writer . . . Skins is a novel which operates by stealth, building its effects gradually, in layers.’ Danielle Wood, The Sunday Tasmanian ‘Skins is set on the islands off the West Australian coast, and draws upon historical fact to transform these islands into a theatre for the darker impulses of human nature . . . Hay reveals, gradually and with considerable acuity, the complexities embodied in any choice, and the delicate interplay of need that exists between the weak and the strong.’ James Bradley, Good Reading ‘Skins is an excellent first novel, tightly and evenly constructed, with an accessible, unobtrusive and unforced style . . . These themes make for compelling reading and the characters are so well constructed that the reader can’t help but be curious about their fate, even the most unlikable ones.’ Australian Bookseller and Publisher ‘Skins is a fascinating journey into Australian history.’ Melbourne Weekly Magazine ‘Hay has a striking ability to present anomalies in a way that illuminates them for readers to contemplate . . . the rhythm of her writing creates a tone that compliments the story. Hay has a gift for mirroring language to the events it conveys.’ Antipodes

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Sarah Hay’s first novel, Skins, won The Australian/Vogel Literary Award in 2001. Sarah grew up in Esperance, Western Australia, and has worked in journalism and public relations. She now lives in Perth and is studying at the University of Western Australia.

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Texas

S A R A H

H A Y

An Australian love story

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The State of Western Australia has made an investment in this project through the Department of Culture and the Arts.

An earlier version of an extract of this work was previously published in Westerly, vol. 50, November 2005, pp. 236–9.

First published in 2008 Copyright © Sarah Hay 2008 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act. Allen & Unwin 83 Alexander Street Crows Nest NSW 2065 Australia Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100 Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218 Email: [email protected] Web: www.allenandunwin.com National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry: Hay, Sarah, 1966Texas ISBN 978 1 74175 394 3 (pbk.) A823.4 Internal design by Lisa White Set in 11/16 pt Minion Pro by Bookhouse, Sydney Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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For Jamie and Robert

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Contents All for a strip of rocky ground 1 Determined to stand tall on the untamed frontier

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Fate threw them together 93 Men fell prey to her angel eyes and her killing ways

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For the heir to triumph the father must fall 175 With a gun in his fist he was ten feet tall 204 By sundown

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Acknowledgements 263

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All for a strip of rocky ground All for a strip of rocky ground

I Susannah could see that something was not quite right on the road ahead. The way the lights were tilted seemed wrong. To begin with they were tiny, winking in the far flat expanse of the night, beyond the thin band of bitumen road that was lit up by their own vehicle’s headlights. And it was impossible to tell whether the lights were on the earth or above it. She glanced at her husband’s profile. It appeared in the greenish glow of the dashboard as an outline and not a real face, but the angle suggested determination and fearlessness. ‘Can you see that?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘What do you think it is?’ His eyes didn’t leave the screen. ‘Maybe a smash.’ 1

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She stared hard through the dark, and the lights disappeared. But before they did she saw that there were two of them, one on top of the other, and they were on her husband’s side of the road. A set of reflector posts flashed past. And then they reached it, captured by the high beam of their vehicle: a truck lying sideways and cattle on the road. It had come from the opposite direction. Her husband stepped hard on the brake and she was thrust into her seatbelt, seeing through the windscreen the bull bar touching the rump of a bullock. She put her hand out as though to prevent her children from falling, but they were strapped to their seats. He slowly eased the vehicle onto the gravel, the headlights finding the stunned eyes of cattle, several on the edge of the bush. They must have escaped from the truck. The one they hit was seemingly unhurt, its flank disappearing into the darkness. John turned off the vehicle’s engine. ‘Barely touched it,’ he said. He opened the door. ‘What are you doing?’ ‘I’m going to have a look.’ ‘Mummy, I’m thirsty.’ ‘Shush. Be careful.’ He stepped out, slamming the door too hard so that the impact of metal on metal jarred, and crossed the road, the darkness folding him away. She hoped no one was injured. A child moaned irritably. There was a short hard sound and at first it didn’t register. But when it sounded again, she knew that noise: it was a gun being fired, like when the roo shooters were

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out at night on the boundary of her parents’ farm. She sat forward in her seat, feeling her skin shrink. ‘Mummy.’ She wanted to be sick and her stomach hurt. There was a figure in front of the overturned cattle truck. ‘Be quiet, be quiet,’ she said urgently. Her husband opened the door and climbed in. He stared straight ahead and turned the key in the ignition. ‘What is it?’ He drove slowly back onto the road. ‘Some cattle were injured. In the truck,’ he added. ‘So who was it, were they all right?’ ‘Some things you’re better off not knowing about.’ ‘Were they thieves?’ But her husband concentrated on the road in front of him and she wondered what he was thinking. About two hours later their headlights picked out the white painted posts of a fence. A generator throbbed through the night air and a dog barked. The dark and its density engulfed her. The car engine clicked as the metal cooled. He gripped the wheel and turned towards her. She looked over her shoulder to avoid the hesitation in his eyes. The children’s limbs were loose with sleep, fat and smooth, revealed by the triangle of light that shone from the roof. One of them seemed to sense the change in motion and stirred a little, muttering. He opened the car door and she watched him disappear around the side of the house. She climbed out, almost falling. Barefoot in the soft warm dirt, she stretched and the blood flowed to the rest

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of her body; silent, conscious of her breathing, in and out, feeling crowded by what lay beyond the artificial light. John returned with a shorter, square-shaped man who wore a shirt with sleeves ripped from the shoulders. His forearms were thickly veined. He told them they weren’t expected until next week. John walked behind their vehicle and began unloading the bags and the other man stepped forward to help him. Ned started to cry, waking his brother. She reached into the car to get the boys out of their seats, lifting them, one at a time, and placing them on the ground beside her, holding their hands in the darkness. They were irritable from being woken again. The men gathered their odd assortment of suitcases and bags and headed towards the veranda. She followed, coaxing the children to walk with her. They reached a doorway and the man turned on a switch and held open the flywire door. The twin fluorescent tubes flickered and hesitated before they became a strong white light. Something scuttled out of sight and the door scraped the concrete floor as it closed behind them. They were in the kitchen. It smelt of old blood and burnt animal fat. The surfaces looked greasy and were dotted with dead insects. A thickset timber table, its top covered with faded green, red and yellow linoleum, was in the centre of the room. Mismatched chairs surrounded it. A small gas oven and cook top stood dwarfed in the recess where once there would have been a wood-fired stove. The render behind it was splattered brown. Obviously no one had ever bothered to clean it. She turned to the small man who remained in the doorway. ‘Are there any women here?’ she asked.

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He shook his head. ‘No, only blokes. Camped out at number eight bore.’ Her husband avoided her eye. She let go of the boys, and the men returned to the car to finish unpacking. She heard them talking on the veranda. ‘They would’ve been cattle duffers, maybe contractors, you know, with their own truck,’ the other man said. She sat with the children at the table, tracing the patterns on the lino. Clouds of green overlaid by dashes of red and yellow stripes. She told them a story. The stripes became birds in a tree talking to each other about how they had flown a long way north and how they would need to build a new nest. They were like the green and black parrots from home, she said, but the boys couldn’t remember them. She spread the camping mattresses out on the timber floor of the sleep-out, away from the bad smells of the kitchen and the dark musty bedrooms where each doorway was barred by the thin invisible lines of a spider’s web. She turned off the light, hoping the twins would settle quickly. After she tucked them into each side of her, their bodies gradually softened in sleep. The man had said the generator would go off in the early morning. He’d told them his name was Gerry and that he was the bore mechanic. Later her husband lay against the wall in his swag. He may have been asleep but there was too much between them for her to be sure. She had no idea of the time now but she knew the trip from town was supposed to take about three hours. They’d stopped to eat at a roadhouse at around six. She’d wanted to stay at the motel, to come out in the morning so that she could see where

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she was. There was a time when she would have argued with him, when her mother was still alive, before the boys were born. Through the flywire she could see the shapes of trees against a lighter shade of darkness that was the sky. Something scrambled in the branches close by. In the early years of their marriage she’d wanted to be involved in what he was doing. She’d wanted to talk about them, their relationship, their future, anything. He always said he was too busy, that there were jobs to be done. Eventually she stopped trying and now the voice in her head kept quiet most of the time. But she was only here because he wanted to be. She pulled the flaps of the swag closer and folded them up so they became more of an obstacle for anything that might crawl across the floor. The canvas was stiff and new. They’d bought it from an army surplus shop in the city. At the time she hadn’t thought she’d need it because she wasn’t going to be working in a stock camp, but John had wanted to sleep under the stars on their way north to show the boys what it was like and he wasn’t interested in why she didn’t want to. She wasn’t scared of animals, only the men who might be on the road at night. John accused her of imagining the worst, but even though she hadn’t mentioned the accident, she’d been right. She knew what the country was like.

II After breakfast John left to find the other men. She had served tea and toast on the lino table once the sticky dirt had been

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wiped off, now she stepped around the cardboard boxes and the esky left beside the cupboard and walked back to the house where the children still slept on the floor. The house was separate from the kitchen. To reach it, she followed a path of concrete slabs with grass growing between the cracks to another flyscreen door. She opened it slowly but it still creaked. Her children hadn’t moved. Ned, always the hotter one, his hair stuck wetly to his forehead, lay on his back, covers off, arms raised above his head. Ollie lay bunched on his side. A gentle breeze filtered through the walls. She could see that this area of the house had once been an open veranda but now it was built in with flywire, shady and cool. Beyond the flywire walls were trees and lawn and then, on the other side of the fence, were long blond spears of grass and bare dirt. The lawn needed watering; it had yellowed in patches of neglect. The pale green interior wall was marked with brownish stains and discarded spiders’ webs that looked like white spots from a distance. Louvre windows opened into the sleep-out, some missing and broken, sills covered by a band of thick dust. Beneath the ledges huddled little brown frogs. Last night Susannah had pushed a cane couch and two chairs with stained and flattened covers into the corner of the room so she could put their bedding on the floor in there. She entered the dim, musty interior where cream-coloured walls had darkened into a sickly yellow, leading to high ceilings and light fittings covered by a rope of dusty cobwebs. Through the hallway into the middle of the house, her thongs slapped the timber floor. Open doorways revealed rooms with camp beds, one with yellow

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foam leaking from a floral mattress cover; another had a double bed with a white headboard plastered with peeling stickers and a dark-wooded dressing table with the mirror scratched and wardrobes with open doors, the little ornate keys long since lost. The windows were all slatted louvres jammed at different angles—some opened fully, others almost closed—looking out onto the veranda or the sleep-out, and beneath the louvres were beetle shells, legs dried brittle, crossed neatly. In the bathroom a petrified frog lay in the bottom of the shower recess, its droppings spotting the surface. There were more live frogs huddled in the corners beneath the ceiling, like little mounds of wet dirt. The washbasin was a dusty bowl, and soap was caked hard in the dish by the taps. She wondered briefly whose hands had been washed by it. They hadn’t brought much with them; they didn’t have much to bring. They were told the house would be fully furnished. She wondered at the people who lived there before them, their rubbish like the clues to a game. She’d grown up on a sheep farm and when the shearers left she remembered that they too had left behind hints of themselves. Sometimes the smell of the sweat of their bodies lingered on months after they’d gone. At the end of the hall was a small room with a yellowed floral curtain. The window behind it was open and the fabric moved slightly. There were grey blankets and a foam mattress torn in half with bits shredded on the floor like large crumbs and books with cowboys on the covers. She picked one up and turned it over. She thought at first they were comics but in fact they were small soft-cover books with pictures of the

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Wild West on the front. The book in her hand flicked open to the first page. Texas was never beautiful in the sense that the rich green and red lands of Montana or Colorado were beautiful, but fairness and splendour were there if a man cared to take the trouble to look. Susannah scrubbed the walls of the kitchen while the boys were asleep. When they woke they wanted to help her but they soon became bored and then they asked again and again where their father was. She brought out their tricycles and let them ride around the kitchen floor, watching them move in aimless circles. Her eyes were drawn to the pattern in the lino. The cloudy green blurred into a lawn, which her father was mowing. Brightly coloured beach towels lay on the grass. She and a friend were on their backs, home from boarding school, darkening their skin and watching fat white clouds and the stream of a jet passing from east to west. They’d go riding in the afternoon, saddling up the little grey mare and the chunky bay to amble along the fire break. When they reached the granite rock they tied the horses to a shrub at the base and climbed to the top. The granite smelt of squashed ants because there were always so many nests, marked by coarse pink sand surrounding the holes, that it was impossible not to tread on them. Once she stood on a nest while trying to undo the knot that tethered her horse to a tree. It felt as though hundreds had crawled up her boots and along her legs and almost to her crotch before she could get her jeans off. They were meat ants with a stinging, burning bite. A small truck drove across the table and through her thoughts. Ollie had found the bucket of Matchbox toys.

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In the afternoon she sat on the grass beside the children as they paddled in their plastic wading pool beneath the yellow fingers of a rain tree. Her eyes traced the papery flowers of a bougainvillea climbing over the roof of the washhouse. It was a small shed separate from the house and the kitchen and it opened out towards the clothes line. She’d discovered earlier that it contained a twin-tub washing machine and a handoperated wringer beside two concrete troughs. The vine above it was in full flower, its soft bright petals hiding the long thorns that grew along its branches. The grass was short and spiky beneath her bare legs. The boys were splashing in the pool. She hadn’t noticed Ollie climbing out but when she looked back towards them he stood with his bucket, pouring water over what seemed to be a long brown stick on the grass. Then it moved. She watched the diamond shape of its head, poised. Ollie was flinging his bucket and the snake struck the blue plastic and she was running to his side. She had Ollie then, scooped up in her arms, grabbing the other one too. Ned squealed, squashed against her body as she ran into the house with them. She could have left them in the kitchen and gone back to kill it, she’d killed a snake before. When she was much younger, on her parents’ farm, she’d taken the saddle out of the shed and was walking towards her horse as a dugite slipped through the grass by her feet. She’d dropped a rock on its head and thought no more of it. This time, she shook by the louvres, peering through the slotted glass. The worst of it was she couldn’t imagine where there might be other people; the workmen, John, or another

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woman in a homestead beyond the hills. The snake had gone. But as she glanced through the window she saw in her mind what might have happened. She didn’t even know how to contact the Flying Doctor. They wanted to go outside again. Their demands brought her back and she was reminded that she was their mother. Ollie’s face was striped with dirt. Ned, the smaller of the two, was dark-haired like his father. She felt a surge of warm responsibility. It didn’t happen often. Sometimes she wondered if there was something wrong with her. Ollie turned to his brother and moved his fat hand across his brow in a way that an adult might. Ned watched his mother too. When she brought out the blocks, he stood at the window while Ollie sat down amongst them. He looked back over his shoulder. Just as she thought he would sit down, he turned back to the window and asked: ‘Who planted the trees?’ She didn’t answer for a minute. She didn’t believe in God, not after what had happened to her mother. Her mother would know what to do with this place. It would be clean. She might even have baked some bread by now and the smell would have leaked into the corners and softened the sight of paint peeling from the walls. She began to answer but realised she was talking to herself since Ned was sitting down and playing with Ollie. Long shadows striped the dirt and the colour of the trunks of the bloodwood trees had deepened. John would be home soon. That morning she’d unpacked the food from the esky and the boxes bought from a dirty supermarket in a small town they’d passed through, and stored it in the cold room, which

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was a large refrigerator with shelves and hooks that hung meat. When she opened it now it smelt of stale blood and she took out a wooden crate and leant it up against the door so it wouldn’t close behind her. Rather than hang a whole beast, someone had cut it into chunks. She wasn’t sure whether the piece she picked out for dinner was rump or something tough like blade. She closed the cold-room door and walked back into the kitchen, slapping the heavy slab of meat down on the benchtop. She looked under the bench to the shelving below where pots and pans and crockery were stacked. Beside them was a plastic tray separating the cutlery, which normally would have been kept in a drawer, except there weren’t any. She couldn’t find any sharp knives. She went back to the cold room, wishing she’d started dinner earlier. She looked along the shelf. She couldn’t even find the stone that would be used to sharpen the knives. Boots scuffed the concrete. She jumped and turned. It was Gerry, the bore mechanic. His eyes sidled sideways, shyly. He touched his hat. ‘I can’t find any knives,’ she said. He took off his hat. He was smaller without it. His dark hair was plastered flat in a sweat crown. When he spoke, he looked at the ground: ‘There’s a killing knife on the back of the ute.’ Ned was crying because Ollie had taken the block that he wanted. It didn’t matter that there were more of the same shape and colour in the box. He wanted that one. Then Ned hit Ollie with a blue block. Ollie screamed and then more loudly when he saw his mother. She stood and rubbed her arms, clasping her elbows tightly. Shit! Her face was tense with a

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frown. Sometimes she could stand outside it, the tight feeling that would cause her to erupt noisily or physically. But when that happened it was more dangerous than if she reacted, for she knew it meant she didn’t care. She turned her back on them. Gerry handed her the knife through the partly open door, clearly not wanting to step any further into a place that was foreign to him. She found a big stewing pot under the bench and set it beside the meat. She cut through the black outer crust, chopping it into pieces for the pot and slicing off the thick yellow fat. It was a smell she had grown up with: the fresh smell of raw meat. She liked it and it took her back to when she stood at the table with her parents while they were cutting up a killer, bagging diced meat and chops and labelling them for the freezer. The sheepdogs lolled panting outside the flywire door, saliva dripping from their lips, leaping onto all fours as soon as they heard the rusty spring of the door. She found tins of vegetables in the pantry, some musty-smelling onions and a few sprouting potatoes and Vegemite for stock, and placed them in the pot and covered it all with water. Ollie was wrapping his arms around her legs. He was hungry. What to feed them? She looked around for Ned. He was playing quietly in the corner of the room with what looked like an old drinking straw he’d found on the floor; he’d need something to eat too, but first they needed to be bathed. She pushed her hair back with her shoulder. Her hands were smothered in onion juice. There was only a shower in the bathroom and she hadn’t cleaned in there yet. It would have to be the concrete tubs in the outdoor laundry. That was where their father found

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them. His children shrieked when they saw him stride across the lawn, his stockman’s hat covered in dust. She was almost relieved to see him. ‘Sit down, Ollie. You’ll fall out,’ she said, tugging the soft round skin of his arm. ‘Where can I wash?’ asked John. ‘In the bathroom,’ she said, as though that were obvious. ‘I need to wash my hands outside.’ ‘God I don’t know, wherever.’ ‘It was just a simple question.’ ‘Can you hand me Ollie’s towel?’ The flywire door of the house banged shut behind him. She could have said they were his children too but she didn’t. She returned to the kitchen with the boys, fresh and pink, smelling of Velvet soap. He was at the table, looking at paperwork. ‘You haven’t cleaned the bathroom,’ he said without looking up. ‘No.’ She sat the children on chairs at the table. Ollie immediately stood on his and lunged towards his father’s papers, tearing a corner from one of them. He gathered up his reading material and walked out of the room, leaving her to deal with the children. He returned to the kitchen when the room was empty, sitting at the end of the table without speaking. She moved in the same way she always did: from the bench to the table to the stove to the sink to the table, then sat down. He’d already started. ‘Is there any salt?’

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She pushed her chair backwards, got up and walked to the pantry. She placed the big red and white plastic salt container in front of him and sat down again. She ate without noticing the taste. A moth flew into the light and the smell of its burnt body filled the room. ‘Not too bad here. What do you reckon?’ He placed his knife and fork carefully together on his plate and looked at her. ‘Mmm.’ She stared into her stew. When he turned away, she watched him. She had married a bland-looking man but she supposed some would say he was nice-looking. His dark hair was freshly washed and combed. He wore a flannelette shirt, with a creased collar, and he must have found his old tracksuit pants. The clothes were familiar. He leant back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. ‘It’s going to be a big muster this year,’ he said with some satisfaction. She stood up and began clearing the table. He stood up too. ‘Here, love, let me help.’ He took his plate to the sink and returned to his seat. Her back was to him as she filled the sink with hot water and began washing the dishes. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘it’s three years today since Mum died.’ Her mother had died on the tenth of May, 1982. She looked over her shoulder at him. He frowned and slammed the tobacco tin on the table. ‘Jesus!’ he said crossly. ‘I can’t believe you’re still carrying on about the past. What’s happened’s happened. Got to get on with it.’

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She stared into the soap suds, her world narrowing to the width of the sink, feeling the bits of food swirl around her hands in the warm water. She heard the door slam as he left the room and it rattled the louvres. The edges of the window blurred and suddenly she could see the cluster of thin-limbed trees on the farm. They were like a forest even though you could see through them to the paddock on the other side. She and her brother thought there might have been a faraway tree. But once you were in the middle of that lonely stand of mallees it was clear there was no other tree of substance. They found sticks which they rode like ponies, whipping them faster with long strips of bark, leaping over the long grass and the lumpy mounds that were rabbit burrows or which perhaps hid a snake. The wind whispered the leaves and shook the tops and rolled them about. But it was always quiet below and when they were tired of galloping they lay down, panting and watching ants trickle over the leaves and along winding narrow paths. She remembered a beetle with black and yellow stripes being carried by an ant. Gradually the flies would whine more loudly and they would escape behind the flywire door of the small fibro cottage built by her grandfather and father. Not long after she met John she’d taken him to meet her mother’s parents. They’d retired to a leafy riverside suburb in the city after selling the farm that had been one of the oldest in the State. Her grandparents were pleased to discover they knew of the station in the Kimberley that John’s family had once owned but somehow lost. She couldn’t remember the

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story or understand why she even thought of it now. John had found her father much harder to please. Her father’s family had been running Collinsville-blood sheep on the edge of the Wheatbelt for about thirty years. They were hardy, robust animals with a good wool yield. It was her father’s idea to run fewer sheep and still fill the wool bales. No one could ever persuade him to increase his stocking rates. He wanted to be prepared in case of a drought. Her father never said anything critical about John but she remembered there was sometimes a look that came over his face when John was talking about cattle. When that happened she’d try to change the subject. She didn’t want John to notice that her father didn’t support his ideas. How stupid she’d been, worrying about John. She placed the dishes on the bench to drain, watching the suds slide off into the sink. He never wanted to know what she was thinking. Despair settled thickly across her shoulders.

III The nights had suddenly gone from being mild to cold. A brittle wind blew every morning across the flat, making her eyes water and nose run when she stood at the edge of the lawn. She would look out towards the hills, watching the bleached grass ripple as though it were solid like water. A stray cow might bellow and a dingo might howl from somewhere out there. By mid-morning the wind would have dropped, the sun would be strong and the

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light would have washed out the colour of the earth. By then she would have been up for six hours. She always started before dawn because that was when John wanted breakfast. Sometimes he’d drive out to where the men were mustering, but most of the time he went with the bore mechanic to learn where there was water. Half a million acres, much of it stony country where rangy cattle clustered in small mobs. They were wily beasts, difficult to muster, and the terrain was hard on the horses. That’s what he told her when he came home at night. Susannah looked down at the diary left behind by the previous manager. John had been studying it over breakfast. It told him where cattle had been found last year, how many head had been sold and where they’d gone. The men’s wages were listed at the back. She hadn’t seen any of the stockmen yet, only Gerry now and then. They were still out at the camp. Before John left this morning he told her there was a cattle truck coming. The driver would drop off some fruit and vegetables from the co-op in town. Then the truck was to continue out to the yards to pick up some bullocks for the meatworks. At least there would be a change in the routine. John had used the Flying Doctor radio, a thin metal box with black knobs which sat at the end of the bench in the kitchen. Static crackled and then there was a sound like a sigh breathed into the microphone. But other than that it was silent. She hadn’t told John she didn’t know how it worked. She turned the knob marked channel. It clicked heavily into the next slot. A woman’s voice spoke loudly through a whining, celestial noise.

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‘She said she’d manage. There was nothing more I could do for her. Over.’ More static before the woman replied. ‘Yeah. He took her to the races. What more could you ask? Over.’ She clicked onto the next channel. It was a male voice. ‘To be picked up Monday. Over.’ Back to the woman. ‘Knew when she didn’t come on that she was gone. Wouldn’t go to hospital. Had the men to look after, she said. They sent out the plane to pick her up. But it was too late. Over.’ Crackle. ‘Yeah. Don’t know how he’ll cope. Or the kids. Over.’ She switched it back to the other channel and moved across to the other side of the kitchen. She gathered up the papers and the diary and returned them to the old table that was pushed against the wall in the sleep-out. John was using it as a desk. A truck rumbled over the cattle grid into the station paddock. She stood at the edge of the veranda as the boys tore across the yard. Dust caught up with the vehicle as it stopped. A hand swung the door closed and a man in a blue shearer’s singlet and stubbies emerged from behind it. He pushed his hat further back on his head. She was at the fence with the children. ‘I have the map. My husband said the cattle are at number eight yards. He said to follow this race.’ She pointed to the stony track that led away from the homestead. It wound around the work sheds and the homestead yards and down towards a creek.

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On the other side of the creek was a wire gate. The track continued over the hill. ‘You need to go through that gate and then follow the map after that.’ ‘I know it,’ he said. He was looking at her instead of where she was pointing. Ollie was trying to escape through the fence. She let him go, gritting her teeth. Ned pulled to go after him. She gave up on both of them, conscious of the man watching her. The children crawled through the fence. ‘Come back. Not outside the yard,’ she said weakly. ‘Where do you want this stuff?’ asked the driver. ‘I’ll show you.’ She spoke over her shoulder. They reached the step up to the veranda. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Her face reddened. It would be rude not to offer. ‘The cattle won’t be ready,’ he said, following her into the kitchen. She moved awkwardly, aware of him behind her. He set the stores down by the cupboard. The kettle had boiled a little while ago. He pulled out a chair. Through the louvres she could see the boys playing in the dirt beside the truck. The fan creaked above her head. Red brown hair coiled moistly above the neckline of his faded singlet. He seemed vaguely amused about something. ‘How’s your old man doing?’ She looked blankly then realised he was referring to John. ‘Fine. I think.’

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‘He was up here before, wasn’t he?’ He paused, watching. ‘That’s what he said.’ ‘Oh, did he? Yes I think so. Before we were married.’ She wondered why she lied. There was something about his manner which irritated her. She straightened her shoulders. He leant back in his chair, smiling. ‘He thinks he knows this country. He’s just had a taste of it. That’s all.’ She brought the mug of tea up to her mouth and swallowed noisily. ‘Have you always been a truck driver?’ He moved in his chair, leaning forward as though to get up, but settled back in it again. ‘Done all sorts. Carting cattle, ringing, horsebreaking.’ He looked into his mug. ‘It isn’t the same now. Too many cowboys.’ ‘What do you mean?’ she asked. ‘They were ringers back then.’ He seemed to be talking to himself. ‘Now you wouldn’t pass the time of day with any of them.’ He looked out the window. There was a long pause. A cricket started up in the corner. She would look for it when he was gone. ‘You know things have happened up here. Things you lot know nothing about.’ He folded his arms and crossed his ankles. She couldn’t contain herself. ‘What?’

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He looked at her and shook his head slightly. ‘Nah,’ he muttered. Not telling. ‘I don’t know anything about this country.’ She was pleading. His eyes narrowed. She was stripped bare. ‘You see them old yards by the turnoff from the main road?’ She nodded. ‘There are yards like that about every ten mile or so through this country. You don’t know how they got there, do you?’ He was waiting for her to react but when she didn’t he continued. ‘Blackfellas,’ he said. ‘They cut em, eh? Big solid trees you get down by the creeks. They dragged them one by one behind donkeys. They’d dig a big hole, same height as you. And if they got it wrong they’d have to sit there for twelve hours, no dinner, nothing. And if they moved they got shot.’ The fan whirled lazily above them, clunking when it caught momentarily at the same point on its rotation. His chair scraped the floor as he pushed it backwards. Suddenly she noticed one of her children had disappeared. She stood up quickly, knocking her hip against the table. She pushed open the flyscreen door, banging it loudly against the wall as it swung wide. She reached the truck to find Ollie hanging off the back of it. ‘Naughty, naughty boy!’ she shrieked, pulling him down. Ollie screamed and tried to kick her stomach. When she turned around to carry him back to the house the driver was at the door of his truck. Corellas screeched overhead, flying as a white cloud against a deep sky. They dispersed and settled in the trees down by the creek.

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‘Hey young fella, you want a ride in the truck?’ Ollie stopped struggling and looked at him, angry and distrustful. She shifted him around onto her hip. Ned was hanging on to one of her legs. ‘Oh no, I couldn’t . . .’ Her voiced trailed off, panic-stricken and embarrassed. ‘Your old man’s out there? He’ll bring them back.’ No. Why couldn’t she say it? She seemed to have lost the ability to stand up for herself, for her children. ‘I’ll come with you,’ she muttered without looking at him. He shrugged and swung up into the cab. Ollie was snuffling into her neck. She handed him to the driver and then went around the other side. She opened the door and lifted Ned onto the seat and hauled herself up. Ollie clung to the truck driver’s shoulder while Ned shuffled his bottom towards the edge of the seat, little legs dangling near the gearstick and hands holding on to the two-way radio that was attached below the windscreen in front of him. Both were solemn. She slid onto the vinyl seat, scratching her legs where there was a tear in the upholstery. He turned the key and the engine vibrated thickly. They lurched down a small slope and over dusty potholes that marked the track, chains rattling in the back. Beside the work sheds were disused vehicles with wheels missing and bonnets raised. A blackened exhaust poked out the side of the generator shed. Between the sheds was a lean-to of timber and corrugated iron attached to an old caravan. A skinny old man in a sleeveless dark shirt stood in front of it, watching them as they drove past.

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‘Met the old fella yet?’ ‘No,’ she said. She waited for him to continue but he didn’t and the man in the rearview mirror slid out of sight. They reached the homestead yards, some of it old timber railings, the rest red iron bars. Frayed hessian shaded the round yard. The truck stopped at the gate beside them and she slid down on the ground to open it. The brakes hissed and she remembered as a child opening the gate for her father. Sometimes he’d let her steer, and when she was older, when her feet could touch the pedals, he allowed her to drive. He’d get the ute going in first gear and then leap out while it was moving so she could drive behind the mob of sheep while he ushered them on foot. All she had to do was keep the accelerator steady and clutch the wheel closely so she could see over the top. She remembered the throaty sound of the ewes and the bleats of their young and the smell of damp, crushed clover. Sometimes her feet would slip off the pedal and the ute would stall and then she’d swap places with her father and walk behind the sheep as they shifted like a white stain across the deep green paddock, the cold air tightening the skin on her face. The truck moved haltingly through its gear changes. It drove down and through the creek, where water reached halfway up the tyres. They left the taller trees behind and the country opened out. Rounded mounds of hills, spotted pale green and yellow, seemingly soft and accessible. It was only when they came closer that she saw the hills were steep and between the spinifex were slabs of sharp flinty rock. On the other side of

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the road, bunches of grasses grew on the plain amongst sparsely leafed trees that seemed denser as they receded into the distance. She looked down on a lizard and caught the inside of its mouth, framed by the frill around its neck, as it stood briefly on splayed legs before disappearing into the grass as the wheels rolled past it. She held Ned on her lap and Ollie tucked closely into her side. She pressed her legs together to stop the skin on her thighs from jiggling with the corrugations in the road. ‘We’re going to see Daddy.’ Ollie jumped up. ‘Where?’ he said, taking his thumb out of his mouth. ‘At the base of them hills,’ said the driver. And then he looked towards her. ‘There’s an esky behind you, grab us a can, would you?’ She reached behind the seat. There were only cans of Four X, Queensland beer. His mouth covered the opening of the can as they lurched over the uneven ground. ‘Have you always lived here?’ she asked. One hand gripped the wheel while the other hand leant against it, fingers clutching the can. He didn’t answer. ‘You don’t say much,’ she said, smiling, wanting to be liked. He glanced at her, sideways. The track turned sharply and he held out his drink for her to hold. The truck followed the thin strip of road as they bounced over rocks and holes. The grassy plain gave way to more trees: white trunks and startling green leaves and trees with bark like the skin of a crocodile. The dirt changed from red to a softer, loamier soil and they reached a dry riverbed. The driver changed down a gear and the truck

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chugged through the sandy ground. She thought for a minute they would get bogged but they ploughed on. She looked upriver where water during the wet would rush densely towards the sea. An enormous paperbark leant over the sand like an old man, and a little trench on the bend held a silver slice of water. The sun was low in the sky and as they came onto the flat where the trees were thin, the soft light turned the flattened grass into the colour of gold and the red hills brightened. Dust hung in the air before the yards like a veil screening the action behind it. Horses and riders were holding a mob that moved as a solid mass through the gate. Against the dust-filtered light were silhouettes of horns and heads, hats and horses, men in the shape of cowboys. Beasts bellowed. Long whips unfurled and snapped back, cracking like gunshot, and the dust flew in between. She was conscious of the feel of her back stuck to the vinyl seat and the way she moved with the vehicle as though it was an extension of her body. The jolts beneath her relaxed the invisible binds that prevented her from breathing freely. ‘Look,’ she said to the boys, ‘we’re almost here.’ Ollie stood up, grasping her shoulder, and Ned tried to stand on her lap. They followed the two-wheel track around the side of the yard and pulled up alongside the ramp. The driver got down from the truck and disappeared from sight. She helped the children out and as she did so she heard John’s voice. He was talking to the driver around the other side. She carried Ned on her hip and held Ollie’s hand as she walked to the front of the truck. She smiled as she made her way towards him. The children were squirming and wriggling like excited puppies.

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‘Daddy!’ She let them go and as she looked up into his face that was partly obscured by the rim of his hat she saw from the straight line of his mouth that they weren’t welcome. He strode towards her, leaving the boys to trail after him. He grabbed her arm, pinching the bone above her elbow with his thumb and forefinger, and spoke into the side of her face. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ Her teeth ground hard together with the effort of not making a sound. Her head suddenly felt full and dense as though a thick cloud of heat was expanding. Outwardly she was impassive. ‘Hey boss!’ someone called over the yards. ‘They’ve lost some.’ ‘Useless bastards.’ He let go of her and turned away, climbing easily over the yards. Skinny and long-limbed, his body moved as though it was capable of anything. In that movement she saw briefly what she’d seen when they first met. The children rushed to follow him but were stopped by the yards, peering instead through the gaps in the railings. The cattle lowered their heads and snorted, wide-eyed, tightly bunched and moving in a circle, uselessly, their red and white flanks rubbing together, tails lifting for a steady stream of shit that splattered those nearby, horns twisting and getting stuck, long threads of saliva hanging from foaming mouths, linking one to the other. She pulled Ollie down as he started to climb the rails. The driver was beside her. He took out a tin of tobacco. A light film of dust covered her face and she blinked to clear it from her eyes. Ollie was

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rubbing his and whining that his eyes were stinging. Ned began to too. It was getting late. It was their bath time and soon they would be hungry. She hadn’t brought anything with her. God, what was she thinking? She was suddenly so tired. So tired she could have settled into the grass and stayed there. But the boys grabbed at her. She had created them and they wanted her, wanted her to make everything all right for them. But how could she when she couldn’t even make it all right for herself? Dust grew denser and the shouting more intense. Horses galloped while their riders tried to wheel the runaways back into the yard. The driver said something again. She couldn’t remember his name or perhaps she never knew it. ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear what you said.’ ‘They won’t be loading tonight. Give you a ride back if you want. I’ll camp up at the station.’ His voice penetrated her fog and it irritated her. She was embarrassed, too, by her husband’s lack of kindness. She looked at her feet and the grass around her that had been squashed. ‘Thank you.’ She gathered the children to her. When they reached the truck, she got in first and the driver lifted her boys up to her. ‘Don’t cry, Mummy,’ said Ned as he shifted on her lap. The driver settled into his seat. Ollie turned to her and said: ‘We’re hungry.’ She thought about that as they left the yards, following the track as it looped around through bush and then back the way they’d come. Heading towards the pale rosy glow that softened the sharp edges of a land seemingly hacked into being with

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a giant chisel and hammer. We’re hungry. Ollie, who spoke for himself and his twin, condemned always to being part of another instead of the singular I. She knew what that was like. After the truck driver showered he returned to her kitchen with two cans of beer. She glanced up quickly while stirring the pot of savoury mince. He had taken his swag out the back and across the small dry creek bed that separated the stockmen’s quarters from the homestead. The children were settled but John hadn’t returned. The driver, she remembered his name was Steve, sat at the table, ripping the top off his can with a familiarity she found disconcerting. She turned back to the pot, stirring, watching the peas and the small pieces of carrot tumble through the grey meat. He spoke and she jumped. ‘I brought you a beer.’ She suddenly panicked. What did he want? Her husband would be home soon. ‘Not for me thanks,’ she muttered into the pot. The generator seemed to miss a beat and the light above her flickered as though it was going to go out. He started to whistle between his teeth. The light was strong again. She heard Ollie calling out to her. ‘Excuse me.’ She walked outside. Ollie was waiting at the door. ‘What’s the matter?’ The light coming from the sleep-out lit half his face. An eye was wide and dark like a pool. ‘I’m scared, Mummy.’

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She looked at him, feeling the fluttering of the vessel in her throat as her heart trembled. God, what to say? To tell him that she was scared too, of the fog that seemed to have wrapped around her. The hands that held his were wet with fear. She lifted him into bed and tucked the covers tightly around him. She whispered a little rhyme that her mother had taught her: ‘Diddle, diddle, dumpling . . .’ Those silly words connected her to another time, and they calmed her. When she returned to the kitchen John was standing under the light. It was the charming John. The one who stood with his feet slightly apart, hips thrust forward, moving his hands as though he was exercising his fingers while he talked. He offered Steve a Bundy and Coke and winked at her as she took her place at the stove. His hair was plastered flat at the sides and it made his face seem narrower and his eyes closer together. Dirt ringed his mouth and highlighted his teeth.

IV John had taken the boys with him on a bore run. As she carried the heavy basket from the laundry to the clothes line she wondered if he was feeling guilty about the way he reacted when she turned up at the yards. A light breeze moved the threadbare sheets already on the line and the shadows beneath formed and re-formed. She had no idea what he was thinking but he’d been in a better mood since the truck left with a load

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of steers for the meatworks. Over breakfast he’d explained how a helicopter muster worked. Cattle were ushered into yards through long wings of hessian that spanned out into the country like a funnel, channelling them into captivity. They were brought there by fear, the flapping hessian and the throb of the machine above. She thought of her marriage and remembered how her mother had called John good husband material when she met him for the first time. He wore an open-neck shirt and moleskins and he told her that he’d just sold his V8 ute and bought a four-wheel drive since he was planning to settle down. Susannah was working as a cadet journalist, filing stories from the Perth Royal Show about the animals that had won their competitions. John had been showing his stud’s prize bull. They met one evening at the stockman’s bar. Together they went outside to watch the entertainment in the arena before the fireworks. They were called the chuting stars, parachutists spilling from a plane that was like a large insect letting loose its young. They fell quickly until their parachutes ballooned above them. Then they drifted steadily downwards. Susannah discovered that she and John had friends in common. Over the next year, in between travelling around the countryside interviewing breeders and carefully reporting the way they described the attributes of their animals, she met John every now and then at the pub where all the country people congregated. It had large windows facing the broad expanse of the Indian Ocean but no one went there for the view. She’d always liked the way he looked in those early days of their relationship. And she liked the casual weight of his arm around

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her shoulders, the way he claimed her in front of the others at the pub. She thought he was someone she could rely on. She placed the second basket of dripping washing on the ground and stretched out a wet work shirt, squinting at the bright light that was filtered by the leaves of the gum tree on the other side of the fence. Drops of water fell loudly on the hard slivers of dried leaf scattered beneath the line. The spindry on the twin-tub didn’t work and she’d struggled to put everything through the hand-wringer. She’d asked John if she could take it into town to get it fixed or perhaps get a new one, but he’d said there wasn’t any money for it in the station budget. She remembered the first time she doubted him. After they were married they went to live on the stud where John had been appointed the overseer. She was excited to have her own home and, being from the country, it didn’t matter that the nearest town was about thirty kilometres away. The housework didn’t take up the whole day then, when it was just the two of them, and she suggested that she should get a horse. ‘Why?’ he’d asked over the scones she’d proudly baked from her mother’s recipe. She was surprised by his tone. ‘I told you, I always used to ride. It’d be fun.’ ‘You won’t have time for that.’ He put the last piece of scone in his mouth. ‘What do you mean?’ He stood up. Smoko was finished and she could see that he was about to leave through the back flywire door and down

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the concrete path to the ute parked by the gate. He would get in that vehicle and drive off like he always did. ‘What do you mean?’ she repeated. ‘Are you saying I can’t have a horse?’ ‘I’m just saying, I don’t think you’ve thought it through.’ He spoke carefully as though he was concerned she might misunderstand him. But he needn’t have worried. She knew what was meant. When the hours between meal breaks seemed to swell and change shape she took to phoning a few of her friends from school, girls with whom she’d shared five years of living in a boarding house, where the partitions between each room didn’t quite reach the ceiling. She was careful to ring only the unmarried ones. And when John became concerned about the phone bill, after all they were only on an overseer’s wage, she took to inviting one or two down from the city for the occasional weekend. John was happy with that. He liked being the host, showing off his wife and his house, and he would invite the unmarried son of their next-door neighbour for dinner. It wasn’t long before her friend Liz was engaged to the neighbour. They were the happy married couples, meeting for a barbecue on a Sunday; their husbands talking about the weather and cattle prices and whatever else it was that they had in common. It was important to support John. He needed to feel confident that he was like any other man who had grown up on the land.

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Then she became pregnant and, not long afterwards, she realised her mother was very ill, and it was like a wave that caught up with the next one so that when it broke, its impact was so much heavier. She started to see less of Liz. To tell her anything, when their husbands were friends, would have been disloyal to John. And although Liz was at their going-away party, Susannah knew the distance between them was too great now for the friendship to continue. The Hills hoist was covered in clothes. Nothing had changed since those first few months on the stud. Perhaps it might have been different if she’d fought harder in the beginning. But each event on its own didn’t seem that important at the time. If she tried now to explain it to John, he wouldn’t know what she was talking about. She left the basket to soften in the sun and walked towards the kitchen. She lit the gas for the kettle and put away the breakfast dishes that were draining on the sink. She made a cup of tea and sat down beside it, feeling the dust dry on her legs. There was a light tap at the flyscreen door and the oily smell of unrubbed tobacco. It was a smell she was used to after cleaning the homestead of all the empty tins of Log Cabin. The people before them had been smokers and readers of cowboy stories. And sometimes, when the boys were having a nap, she read the stories too, for company. Behind the door was an old man, his face flushed with a network of veins. Two large sacks of skin hung beneath his eyes. They were eyes without eyelashes and they looked at her and watered. His hat was held at his

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side and with his other hand he smoothed wisps of hair across the top of his head. He nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said, realising he was the man she saw standing by the shed when she had passed in the truck. She had forgotten about him. He cleared his throat and gave a small hoarse cough. She thought he was going to spit on her veranda. ‘It’s Irish,’ he said. ‘What is?’ ‘Me name,’ he replied. ‘I’m the manager’s wife. How can I help you?’ ‘The other fella, he bank me pension and I buy stores from here.’ He nodded towards the stores shed. ‘I’m outa tobacca.’ He seemed out of breath too. She noticed his lips were slightly blue. He probably had emphysema. ‘I’ll have to speak to my husband,’ she said. He reached into his shirt pocket and took out what she thought was a tin of tobacco but when he opened it they were sweets like the ones her grandfather used to have buried in his deep trouser pockets. Lemon-flavoured lollies covered in white powder. She suddenly had a strong memory of the way the smell of his cigars used to cling to his clothes. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she said. ‘Kettle’s just boiled.’ He didn’t answer but he reached for the door she was holding open. She stepped back to let him shuffle through. She noticed one of his legs dragged a bit as though it were stiff. He pulled a chair out and placed his hat on the table. With the other hand he tucked the tin back into his shirt pocket.

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‘My grandfather used to love those. My mum always complained it was the only thing he ever ate.’ She looked up from where she was standing at the bench. ‘How do you have your tea?’ ‘Black.’ She placed it before him and moved the jar of sugar and a spoon in the same direction then sat down at her own cup. ‘He was a drover somewhere up here. I don’t know where. Or maybe it was over in the Northern Territory.’ She watched him spoon five teaspoons of sugar into the liquid and stir it. Her grandfather had lived with them on the farm until about a year before he died. She was eight when that happened. She hadn’t thought of him in a long time. It hadn’t occurred to her this might have been the country he worked before he went south, before he met her grandmother and worked as a fencing contractor and then bought his bit of land, the land her father now worked. Both of them, she realised, had lost their women before they should have. She wondered about this old man who called himself Irish, whether he’d had a wife. ‘You live on the station?’ she asked. ‘I worked for the fella before the fella just gone, and the fella before him, and maybe even the fella before him. My memory’s not what it used to be.’ ‘Things are a bit different since then?’ He looked into his mug and did something strange with his mouth, pursing his thin lips and then sucking them in.

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‘This place here used to have good cattle and good horses. That station paddock there,’ he nodded towards the window, ‘had a stud herd with good bulls and good cows but it all changed in the sixties. Big mob of horses too, beautiful horses, there were too many for one fella to handle, started to shoot em for pet food. Got rid of all the good working horses, he did.’ He swallowed his tea. ‘Nowadays everyone in a bloomin hurry. They get jackaroos never seen this country before. Last fella he was using a helicopter, otherwise they’d all get lost and perish in the bush. I don’t like that helicopter mustering. Cattle are all knocked up by the time they get em into the yards. Cows leave their calves behind and some of those big old bullocks just lie down and die.’ She was surprised by his volubility. Perhaps he hadn’t spoken to anyone for a while. He gazed mournfully out the window, his eyes watering. She knew John was going to get a chopper pilot in. It was the only way to get stock out of the hilly country where they hid in the gorges. Irish turned to face her again. ‘Used to be a lot of people lived here in this country. A mob here and a mob there and fellas in out-camps and hawkers and drovers wandering through. You can see signs of them if you know where to look. Some of them big white gums down by the creek they’ve got scars where wire ate into the bark. Scars from a long time.’ Was her grandfather one of those men? All she knew of that time was when he’d taken some enormous bullock to the meatworks without it dying from exhaustion. There was another

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story too, one she was vaguer about since she wasn’t sure how she came to hear of it, about how, along the droving run, her grandfather, whose name was George, was known by everyone as Daddy. ‘There was a truck driver here the other day,’ she said. ‘He was talking about the timber yards around the place, saying the Aboriginals built them and that they were forced to . . . It sounded cruel. I wasn’t sure . . .’ She trailed off, not knowing what she wanted to say. Irish drained his mug of tea. Thin vertical lines etched the corners of his mouth. His skin was mottled and stained. He seemed to be watching her. ‘I could tell you a few stories,’ he said, and turned away. She waited. And perhaps because she didn’t say anything, he began. ‘There was this fella called Kelly. His place was just over the river here, a battler’s block, the country in between the big holdings that were too hard for the big fellas to get into. Kelly and the likes of him used to help cleanskins wander into their country. They call it poddy-dodging. With the branded cattle, they’d make a new brand to cover the old one. Kelly was real hard on a young fella he had working for him. They reckon he used to knock him around or throw him in a waterhole early in the morning. Sometimes he put him in a big sack bag and hung him up in a tree. The boy grew bigger and stronger. By and by he got fed up with Kelly so he belted him.’ He paused, coughing, and Susannah thought it was going to be the end of it. But he continued.

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‘One day—’ he croaked and cleared his throat—‘a policeman rode into Kelly’s stock camp. He got off his horse and walked over to Kelly. Kelly’s men were holding a small mob of cattle out on the flat. Kelly gave him some tea. The two men had a bit of a yarn. They call it Moonlight Valley that run of Kelly’s and back then it were wild blackfella country which was why that fella was there yarning to Kelly. He had rounded up six myalls for spearing some cattle. Kelly would normally hunt coppers off his block. That day he was pretty friendly, finding out from the copper what he was doing. They reckon it gave him an idea. To get rid of the boy. ‘“But what’s he done?” asked the copper. ‘He’d heard all the stories, how that boy had saved that fella’s life, how he was a bloody good stockman and a bloody good tracker. He knew he was no outlaw like Kelly said. Well, he took him like he was told to, and wrapped one of them collars around his neck and joined him up with the others. It took ten days to walk to town. The main street was just a track with the crocodiles below waiting for the cattle to slip off the side. There were no meatworks back then. They reckon it was a town full of madmen and fellas from the government. The road ended at a two-storey pub down near the jetty where they loaded the cattle. Now this copper was heading south by boat the next day. They reckon he wasn’t too bad for a copper and his conscience was worrying him about that boy. He walked out onto the veranda of the pub and looked into that bright iron light. The water and the mudflats and the dead-looking scrub shimmers and jumps about in the heat. That bloomin place

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can be hotter than hell. He wasn’t sorry to be leaving. He knew there were a lot of wrongs done in that town and this one he could put right before the morning. ‘“You’re a pretty good fella,” he told that boy. “Here’s a rifle and half a pack of bullets to protect you on your way back.” ‘In those days there were wild blacks along the river and he’d need to watch out for himself. The policeman sent him off thinking he’d go back to Kelly and that Kelly’d realise what a good fella he was and there’d be no more trouble. Before that boat pulled away on the full tide that young bloke must’ve been thinking, I’m going to shoot that old bugger Kelly. He followed the tidal flats out and then upstream, along one of the five rivers that fed it and into the wide river valley where all that good cattle grass grows.’ ‘Sorry,’ interrupted Susannah, ‘I just remembered, one of the sprinklers.’ He cleared his throat again and took a mouthful of tea. ‘Ah you don’t want to hear any more,’ he said into his cup. ‘I do,’ she said, stepping through the doorway. She hurried back from the far end of the yard, thinking he might have gone. But he was still there, smoking. She made them both another cup of tea. ‘Go on,’ she said. His eyes became more distant, and he started again. ‘By and by that young fella came to a big old bottle tree and they reckon he watched one of Kelly’s stockmen for a while and then put that rifle up to his shoulder and shot him. That bloke buckled like one of them new cans of grog but he wasn’t dead.

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He called out to his gin and she caught his horse and they bolted for the main camp. That fella died from his wounds the day after he reached Kelly’s homestead. All of them at that place were watching the shadows and looking out for the boy. They knew he was coming and Kelly stayed locked inside, the old women bringing him his food. For a few days the boy made tracks around the house and then he left. But that wasn’t the end of it. At another place two men were found dead in their swags. They reckon it was the work of the boy and a couple of wild fellas that joined him. He stole ammunition, guns and tucker and took all the girls from there into the bush. For the next year or so he hung about in a cave on a big hill not far from here. He made a ladder he could pull up so nobody could climb up. From there he had a view of the river snaking its way through the country. All that year and all the next, stock camps were surrounded at night and robbed and travellers held up. Word went from station to station that the bushranger and his gang were going to kill all the whites. The coppers were buggered. They couldn’t find him. No one could. There were stories flying around as to where he was hiding but only the old women at Kelly’s place thought he might be close by. It was one of Kelly’s old girls who spotted signs of him one day. That boy, they called the bushranger, had been terrorising for near two years. She was looking for some stray goats along a dry creek bed when she saw marks of someone trying to cover their tracks in the sand. She went back to the homestead and told Kelly and he sent her and one of his men on to a coppers’ outpost. They flew there, horses’ hooves clattering on the stony ground, riding hard through them rocky creek beds,

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their horses lathered and footsore. At daybreak that old woman led four coppers and six trackers on the hunt for the bushranger. Over the next few days more coppers joined them until there was a big mob after him. The bushranger must have got bloomin careless cos they picked up his tracks not far from the river where he crossed it. It’s a place not far from here where the river curves almost at a right angle and then narrows to shallow rapids over grey rock. In the early morning those stones shine like silver, you know, like foil. The riders made their plans on that sandy river bank. Just above them there’s a hill that looks like a bloody big red head which has rolled away from the ranges. They rode up into the river gums and the paperbark and out into the open country of grass and ant beds and trees with no shade. They found him at a little jump-up. First they shot two of the fellas with him. The bushranger was behind an ant bed and he shot a bloody copper through the ears. They reckon he had a fortyfour rifle, and a pistol and six-shooters, and that a woman was loading them for him until she was shot. And then one fella sneaked around and got him, shot him in the arm. When that happened he couldn’t hold his gun. ‘“You got me,” he said, throwing his gun away and coming out into the open. They shot him bit by bit. It wasn’t a clean death. They shot his other arm, then through his ribs. They came closer and put the finishing touch on him right in the forehead. They cut off one of his arms and took it back to town to show they got him.’ Irish wheezed a little. His eyes flicked over her and then focused on something she couldn’t see from where she was sitting.

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‘Fellas come up here, they don’t know anything,’ he said as he took out the tin of sweets from his top pocket. ‘The policeman must have felt terrible letting him go in the first place,’ she said. Irish didn’t answer and then he was pulling himself up out of his chair. The flyscreen door scraped closed behind him. She didn’t know whether he was just tired of talking or if it was something she said. She sat back in her chair and drank the last of the tea. She knew the world where she came from was small, a world where similar ideas and opinions found and fed one another. There was little difference from the talk at home on the farm, to the conversations in the boarding school common room and among the people she met as a journalist for a rural newspaper. Some of her friends had travelled to Europe. When they returned they married boys from brother schools who had either waited at home or travelled in packs of their own. She was told she needed to travel to appreciate where she came from. Irish’s story was from a long time ago but it made her think of other stories, stories she didn’t know that were connected to the place where she grew up. She thought of her family’s farm and imagined for the first time how the country might have looked before the chain was dragged through it. Before it was shaped and sowed. She remembered the Aboriginal people on the outskirts of town, their camps conveniently cornered into areas of little value to the town’s municipal leaders. It made her uneasy to think that while she was growing up they had lived in the swamp lands, the sinkholes of the country. Her eyes focused again on the

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view through the louvre windows. The heat mirage on the flat turned the dirt into liquid. But she couldn’t afford to think like that, to doubt her family’s right to belong in that place, otherwise there was nothing to hold on to.

V They were fighting. Rational thoughts seemed to compress, one on top of the other, to become something else, something blinding and fierce. It felt like she was capable of anything but it never lasted and then she was left with nothing. John had his back to her. But he wasn’t finished. ‘You always, you and your parents, try to make me feel as though I’m not good enough.’ She wasn’t going to remind him that her mother had been dead for three years and she hadn’t spoken to her father since they left. He turned around to face her. ‘I’m sick of it. I’m not having it any more.’ She’d been telling him about Irish. How he’d come back after lunch for his supplies and told her that he was going to go like the old blackfellas; when he knew it was time, he was going to walk into the bush. She’d added to John that hopefully they wouldn’t still be around to see that. She didn’t realise her husband would be so easy to provoke. ‘I’m making a go of it here. For us, for the boys. Plenty of space for them. What more could you want?’

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‘What more could I want?’ she repeated slowly and quietly. ‘Someone to talk to, that would be a start.’ She was trying to find in her that place where once there was fearlessness. So that she could continue. To tell him that she wasn’t putting up with this any longer. But she’d lost the ability to hold on to the fight, to pluck words and hurl them back without any thought of damage. ‘What’s the matter with you? Aren’t you happy?’ Their eyes met. She looked away. He had no idea how she felt and it made her think there was nowhere to go. How could she even start to tell him what was wrong when he hadn’t even noticed? Blinking away the tears that made everything seem like a mirage. He turned and walked out the door. There was so much space, she thought, so much space for them all to get lost in. She let the air out of her lungs slowly, it could be worse, perhaps. And she thought of her mother. The cool air between the house and the kitchen was fragrant with frangipani. She stepped from one concrete paver to the next, the thought crossing her mind that a long-legged man must have laid them. Inside the kitchen she opened the windows, letting in the industrious sounds of the birds, and tore down the net curtains from above the louvres. Broken webs drifted with dust motes, sliding across the light. Falling, spiralling. She thought of Irish’s desire to walk into the bush and die; the moment at which he might decide to do it, and the walk, his last walk, the birds fluttering overhead, flickering beyond his vision, unthinkingly noisy; one step after another. Free of a past that might constrain his right to die as he wished. Unlike the way

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her mother had died, forced to sip water, fed with a drip in the twilight glow of a hospital room. Her mother hated to be any trouble. Perhaps it was why she stopped eating and drinking. Because someone had to do it for her. Susannah knew that would never happen to John. Looking after him and the children was her reason for existing. Why did she think it could be any different? John didn’t seem to know much about Irish other than the fact he was written in as a clause of the station’s purchase agreement. No one was apparently allowed to get rid of him. Although John reckoned he could kick him off if he wanted to. ‘What’s he going to do, sue?’ John added, laughing. Susannah looked forward to seeing the old man again. He didn’t expect anything from her. She wiped the lino tabletop, watching her hand move in a circular motion, leaving behind little droplets of water, satisfied by the way the dirty marks were being obliterated. The thought of being here indefinitely left her with a vague pain in the head. It was as though her mind was overflowing with things that had to be folded away. There was plenty of medication she could take for it in the Flying Doctor medical chest. The heavy grey enamelled chest was kept under the bottom shelf in the pantry. Its key was on the top shelf among all the other keys she was responsible for, keys that opened the stores cupboard and the cool room where the beer was kept. Reading the literature, the chest open, she discovered five closely packed trays, apparently containing eighty-five items. She checked them off against a list and read the manual and worked out how to

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reach the Flying Doctor in an emergency. The possibilities for injury and death out on a station three hours from town seemed almost endless. She settled for a packet of paracetamol, taking two tablets with a glass of water. Rinsing her glass at the sink, she gazed out through the louvres and remembered that John had just asked whether she was happy. Why had it taken him so long? In the afternoon she left the boys lining up Matchbox cars like a miniature traffic jam across the floorboards in the sleepout while she connected the hoses to rusty sprinklers and moved them around the lawn between the trees. Overhead birds darted and dived from one branch to the next, one after another, screeching. She thought of what Ollie had just said. After they had woken from their nap, she had taken them across to the kitchen for a drink and something to eat. He had stopped on the path and looked up at the sky. ‘How high is the sky, Mummy?’ he asked. ‘Like how many metres long is it?’ It reminded her of how she and a group of girls from boarding school had camped out in the paddock of a farm owned by the parents of one of her friends. They slept in sleeping bags around a mallee-root fire and imagined their lives. Looking up at the stars, the possibilities had seemed endless. ‘When I grow up,’ Ollie said, ‘I’m going to be an astronaut. Mummy, what are you going to be when you grow up?’ It was too hard to keep up with the news of all her friends’ activities, especially when she had nothing to tell. The spray from the sprinkler arced over the leaves and everything glittered.

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Little birds with black-banded eyes dipped and trilled. She walked across the lawn to the storeroom after collecting the list of stores from the desk in the house. John had produced it last night. She would need to place another order for the second half of the year: all the groceries except perishables for the next six months. They’d come up by truck from Perth. She checked off what they already had. There were cans of food stacked on shelves that bent under their weight. Beans and corn and beetroot arranged at random, and then more cans in unopened boxes on the floor, along with drums of flour and large containers of tea and coffee and sugar and oil. A line of light shone where the walls met the floor, and the gap made her think of snakes. She looked up again and noticed the layer of dust and what may have been mouse droppings that covered everything: the tins of unrubbed tobacco, Rizzo papers and then, to her right, folded dusty jeans and hats and belt buckles that had lost their shine. There were more books like the ones she’d found in the house: cowboy stories for one dollar. The covers reminded her of the posters that advertised what was on at the drive-in in the town where she grew up. A shadow crossed the doorway. It was John. Perhaps she should talk to him, answer his question. ‘What are you doing?’ she called as she stepped back into the light. ‘I’ve got jobs to do,’ he said over his shoulder. The children were running through the sprinkler.

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Determined to stand tall on the untamed frontier Determined to stand tall on the untamed frontier

I Laura learnt to ride on a tight rein, her horse circling an instructor in a small well-kept yard located on the edge of Greater London and on some maps it was probably considered to be in the county of Hertfordshire. The instructor repeated many times how Laura was to hold her hands, and what she was to do with her feet, toes pointed forwards, elbows close to her sides. When Laura accepted a job as a jillaroo soon after arriving in a small town in the far north of Western Australia, she wondered if the station horses would respond to the same commands. She was driven out to the station sandwiched between the manager, who she had just met, and the new head stockman, a man surprisingly called Texas, and on the back of the same utility were two other men who were going to work as stockmen. 49

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They passed through country that looked like the African landscape she’d seen as a child in a TV program called Daktari, and reached the station homestead after dark, the ute pulling up in front of a fence. A woman was standing beneath the light on the veranda. Laura was relieved to discover that she was not the only female. She hadn’t expected the trip to take so long. The silences between the men made it longer. Even though the woman at the hostel had known of John and the place he managed, there’d been too much time for ideas to creep into her mind and make her uneasy. As the light had left the country they were driving through, it had begun to feel more foreign. Occasionally John, the manager, would ask Texas a question and when Texas replied he seemed to be laughing to himself, but even when she listened closely she couldn’t hear anything funny about what he’d just said. John told Texas she was from England. Texas made a small noise in the back of his throat and looked out the window. ‘She can ride,’ added John. Texas glanced at her and back at the windscreen, a slight nod, and then she saw that he was grinning. ‘Maybe ride one of them buckjumpers eh?’ She smiled warily, unsure whether to laugh or not. The woman under the light stepped forward to meet them. Laura looked back at Texas; he was watching her and then he turned and followed the other two men. They seemed to know where to go because they vanished into the darkness. She stared after them. It was the first time she’d met an Australian Aboriginal. After London, she’d expected every city to be a mix of people

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from different places and cultures, but in Perth, surprisingly, it hadn’t been like that, not where she had stayed. John was holding the door open. He nodded towards the woman. ‘My wife Susannah.’ Their eyes met, Susannah’s resting on hers briefly before they flicked across to her husband. ‘Are the kids in bed?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ Susannah croaked and cleared her voice, repeating ‘Yes’, more loudly. She seemed startled and it made Laura uncomfortable since obviously Susannah wasn’t expecting her. Laura searched her memory for something similar, a reference point, but there wasn’t one. Instead she became aware of the silence that seemed to exist beyond the boundaries of her own experience. Sounds emerged from it, scratchy and insignificant, the far-off engine, the footsteps of the woman across the veranda, her own shuffle that followed. It felt as though she’d dived into the gap between what she’d imagined a station in Australia to be like and the reality, and it was a bottomless drop. Susannah stopped in the doorway in front of Laura, glanced over her shoulder and then back at John who was still standing by the door. ‘Shouldn’t she go with the others?’ she said to him. John stepped into the kitchen. ‘She can’t go with the blokes. Cook’s out bush. She can have that room that was the governess’s.’ He dragged out a chair for himself and sat down. ‘Pull up a pew,’ he nodded towards Laura. ‘You want a cup of tea?’

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They sat in silence while Susannah poured water into a pot. Her back was blank, unreadable, and the sleeveless top she wore revealed arms that were slight yet muscular. There was a smell of cooked meat in the room and dishes lay neatly stacked on the sink. Although the place was clean, it looked old and shabby, more like a workers’ cottage. Laura tried to catch the woman’s eye when she turned around. Susannah seemed to relent a little, adjusting her features into a small tight smile. John was talking. ‘I’ll get you to give us a bit of a hand around the place. The other blokes’ll head out to camp tomorrow. They’re behind with the mustering.’ Laura nodded, having no idea what he meant by that. She took a sip of tea. She should have looked for a job in town or waited until she got to Darwin, worked in a café or a dress shop. But she’d been determined to work on a station in Australia. It started when she read The Thorn Birds years ago. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t remember the story, it was the feeling of anticipation she was left with when she finished it. She glanced at Susannah again but her eyes were elsewhere and her expression inscrutable. Laura hoped they might become friends. Laura had arrived at the small Kimberley town from Perth five days earlier on a Greyhound bus. Pressing her face to the tinted windows and watching the landscape slide sideways, she felt as though she was trapped in a metal capsule for fortyeight hours. She was impatient to breathe the warm dry air. Her mind’s eye was able to see her travels as a spidery trajectory

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across the continent, the shape of which she had long ago memorised. When she thought of how much blue lay between where she was now and the green-shaded island of another hemisphere, she leant back in her seat and closed her eyes. When she opened them again the outback sun was surfacing, an aberration in size and colour, breaking through strips of cloud wrinkling the sky. Tree shadows striped the pale dirt and she became breathless at the thought of her own courage. The bus followed the road as it carved through rock and grass and hills that bled red into the distance. Grass grew in thin yellow spears clinging to the contours of the land and the silver trunks of the boabs glowed like fat-bellied sentinels. The bus drove over a steel-framed bridge and beneath was water that curved into a lake on the side she was sitting. The driver turned off onto a gravel road, away from the lake, to where bungalows sat squarely on large blocks of land; eventually he slowed and stopped outside a flat-roofed, brown-brick building with a sign above it advertising Four X. Her pack was taken out from underneath the bus and placed on the side of the road by the driver. The dirt was fine like flour and it leaked rusty colour onto her flip-flops and between her toes. The door of the bus swung shut and she was left standing alone. She glanced at her watch. It was seven in the morning. There were people she’d met in Perth who could have told her where the youth hostel was but she hadn’t thought to ask and she hadn’t expected to be the only person getting off at that stop. The place reminded her of a town she’d visited on a tour to the goldfields, a ghost town,

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but further down the road there were dark shapes of people drifting between the light and into the shade of trees. She walked across to the double doors of the pub and peered through the glass. The bar was closed and the concrete pavement had a sickly smell of spilt beer. She returned to her belongings and dragged them along the dirt to the shade of a tree that had leaves like green butterflies. She heard a vehicle in the distance. It sounded like a four-by-four as it changed through the gears. Then it faded. It was so quiet she could hear leaves flick to the ground. They were brittle, hard-edged leaves. She broke one in half and threw it away. Sharp-beaked birds fluttered in the branches above. A grey bird with black speckles around its neck, a dove perhaps, dropped into the dirt like a helicopter landing and scattered dust and debris. It cooed and she realised it was the bird responsible for the persistent call she had heard in the distance whenever the bus had stopped for food. The driver said it was a peaceful dove. Whoever named it must have been comfortable in this strange outback land. Not crushed by the weight of its sky. Laura’s attention returned to the fluorescent light of the station kitchen and the man and woman on the other side of the table. She finished her tea and eventually Susannah offered to take her to her room. Laura followed her through the door and waited while Susannah collected some linen. Laura discovered her room was across the lawn, away from the other buildings. When Susannah turned on the light, Laura saw that she had her own bathroom. They made the bed and, just when Laura thought everything was going to be all right, Susannah

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straightened, standing tall by the door, and said, ‘Where did John find you?’ Laura replied at the youth hostel, but she knew the question was somehow more complicated than that. After Susannah left, Laura discovered that the shower produced only cold water. A few days later Laura was still wary of Susannah. That morning the woman had been angry with her children for wandering across to Laura’s quarters. Laura had liked talking to the boys since they reminded her of her niece who would be about the same age as them. Now Laura sat on the cool edge of the veranda, listening to the cicadas that seemed to sizzle in the dry grass. The hills beyond the fence appeared unattached to the earth and she could hear the children in another part of the house. She stood up and decided it was more comfortable in her own place. John could find her there. She walked about twenty metres past the stores shed to the other end of the yard and stepped into the area that was like a veranda enclosed by flywire where along one wall was a single bed. Lying there, it was possible to feel the slightest tremor of a breeze passing through the wire. She wondered if there might be something else to do today, rather than accompany John as he drove seemingly endlessly through the bush and the grass, apparently checking the troughs and the machines that pumped water. She had caught glimpses of wide-eyed cattle and he talked about improving the herd, conversation and silences broken by the intermittent appearance of a gate. She supposed he liked having someone to open them.

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She re-read the letter she’d collected at the GPO in Perth. Perhaps her family had already left for France. Her mother told her they had sold their caravan and bought a new one that had a microwave. They hadn’t decided yet but they might stay at the caravan park below the chateau on the hill in the Loire before they drove on to the Camargue and to their favourite place by the sea. Your father has a new hobby, she wrote, he is painting copies of the photos from our family trips in watercolours. She enclosed a postcard-size picture of some wetlands and a watery sky above it. When Laura had arrived in Perth it had been raining in England. It was easy to imagine the wet streets, the cars and the buses passing through puddles, a train surfacing from a tunnel, streaming with water, whining to a halt at its station. From there she could remember what it was like to enter their semidetached house in north London, the heavy door and the narrow passageway, the coat rack swollen with padded jackets and beanies and scarves, and then announcing through the thick warm air to her mother that she was home. But it was harder now that she knew the house in Mill Hill lay empty. There would be a letter waiting at the post office in Darwin. It was another place on the map but there was so much in between. Perhaps her parents would be wondering why she hadn’t written and they’d also know she hadn’t written to her sister. She looked at the little watercolour painting again. It would be impossible for her father to paint in watercolours the landscape she could see through her bedroom window. He wouldn’t have the right palette to use, just as she couldn’t find the right words to describe it. She got up from the single bed

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to return the letter to the inside pocket of her backpack in the bedroom. It was where she also kept her passport, her return plane ticket and a round-Australia bus pass. The bedroom was a small, square room with an overhead fan and just enough room for a double bed and a wardrobe. The floorboards were a parched grey and marked with splotches of paint from when someone had painted the walls, and the window looked out past the lawn to a fat boab tree and to faraway hills. Without the letter from her parents it was possible to imagine that she didn’t belong anywhere.

II There was no one on the veranda, so Laura moved hesitantly towards the kitchen door. She didn’t know why she did that. She wasn’t normally shy but the station people made her feel slightly awkward as though, perhaps, she was in need of them and not the other way round. They were in the kitchen talking. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you. You said you wanted someone to talk to.’ ‘Oh . . . so that’s why she’s here.’ Laura was peering tentatively through the flywire. Susannah’s knuckles disappeared into the dough she was kneading on the bench. She looked up. ‘I was just looking for John,’ said Laura.

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Susannah inclined her head towards the table. John was sitting there with some papers spread out before him. ‘Laura, there’s a mob of weaners that should be arriving this afternoon,’ he said, shuffling through the paperwork. ‘I need you to make sure they’re run into the yard with the trough or just get the driver to do it.’ He paused for a moment. ‘You can manage that?’ Laura stood there for a moment wondering what to do next, thinking it would be nice to be offered a cup of tea, too embarrassed to move away. She called through the flywire: ‘Is there anything else you’d like me to do before then?’ There was a pause before Susannah answered: ‘You can water the lawn. Thanks.’ ‘What about that stuff by the door?’ added John. ‘I keep tripping over it. Why don’t you get her to take it over to him?’ ‘It’s fine. I’ll do it later.’ ‘What is it?’ asked Laura. ‘I can do it.’ Susannah came to the door and opened it. ‘If you want to,’ she said flatly, and gestured to the cardboard box on the ground. ‘It’s for the old bloke who lives in the caravan near the shed.’ Laura was trying to maintain her brightness, her enthusiasm for being on a station, a place quite different from what she’d expected. It wasn’t anything like she could remember from The Thorn Birds. There was a strange emptiness that didn’t seem to have anything to do with the landscape.

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The old man’s camp was about halfway between the work sheds and the cattle yards, beside a small stand of thin boabs that must have grown from a single seed. The area around the sheds was like a desert, the dirt a deep red, compacted from all the traffic that obviously passed between the two places. It was about two hundred metres away from the homestead fence and she couldn’t help but notice the contrast between the baked earth she was now walking on and the soft moist grass behind her. The green band that skirted the homestead was like a barrier, coaxed into existence by endless rotations of sprinklers. The work sheds were part of one big structure, the roof and the walls built from corrugated iron that was either stained red by rust or the dust, the openings beneath revealing spaces cluttered with tyres and welding equipment and broken vehicles. The sound of someone hammering metal on metal came from within. Irish’s camp was an untidy arrangement of rusty iron and spinifex thatch beside an old caravan. The box had grown quite heavy in her arms since it contained mostly cans of food. She walked in under the open-sided shelter and placed it on the table beside the outside wall of the caravan. There were boxes beneath the table and on top there were bottles and plastic containers. ‘Excuse me,’ she called, hesitating, wondering whether she should leave, but she was curious about this person who lived like a gypsy. There had been a gypsy camp on the fringe of her grandmother’s village north of London. Her grandmother kept

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a bike for her and her sister to ride when they visited. Before they left they had to lock it up in the conservatory in case the gypsies took it. She remembered her mother being cross with their grandmother for telling them that. There was movement in the caravan and it shook slightly with the sound of his footsteps. He appeared in the doorway, shirtless, thin tufts of grey hair growing patchily on the skin below his neckline which was much lighter in colour than his arms and neck. He looked like a man who was shrinking. He unhooked his hat from a nail in the timber post that supported the roof and sat on the edge of a camp bed. There was the faint smell of urine and something rotten mixed with smoke. On one side of the camp were the smouldering remains of a fire. It was surrounded by three small sheets of iron that must have acted like a wind break, and beside it were blackened pots sitting in the dirt. He nodded at her. ‘You’re not that woman from the homestead.’ His cloudy eyes seemed to water with the intensity of his gaze. She smiled quickly. ‘Oh, I just arrived. From England.’ Thinking there was no trace of Ireland in the old man’s voice. ‘What’ve they done with the other one?’ ‘The other one?’ she frowned. ‘Oh, you mean Susannah. She’s up at the house. I’m just working here,’ she added, almost apologetically. ‘Sit down.’ He waved his hand. ‘You making me tired.’ She sat on an empty flour drum on the other side of the table, feeling a little like she did when visiting an elderly neighbour in a nursing home: her response to the closeness

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and ugliness of old age confused by pity and curiosity. He nodded towards some cuttings of a plant he had hung upside down from one of the beams. ‘Kapok. Call it snow bush too.’ He stood up slowly from the camp bed and limped out to the fire. He unhooked a tea towel hanging from a metal stake and wrapped it around the wire handle of a black can that was sitting on the edge of it, bringing it to the table. He poured dark liquid into two mugs. ‘Kapok,’ he repeated. ‘That stuff brought here by the Afghans. Them camel saddles stuffed with Kapok. Seeds fell out all the way from here to bloomin Queensland.’ He heaped five spoonfuls of sugar into his cup from the jam jar on the table and sat back on the bed. ‘I didn’t know there were Afghans in Australia in those days,’ she said and sipped the tea. It was bitter and body warm. ‘One fella had seventy-two camels. Traded with a Chinese family up at the port and then hawked his stuff down this way and over to the east.’ She hadn’t realised there were Chinese people either. She’d only heard stories about the English. ‘Old Ali Khan. That was his name. They give him a bit of land for his camels on that big place over the border. He liked to gamble that fella. Whenever the missus from the big house couldn’t find her girls, that’s where they’d be, gambling with old Ali and listening to his bloomin Indian music. One time the missus got fed up and kicked him out. Last time I heard he was heading down to Alice. All his bloomin camels, running wild.

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‘Blackfella mob south of here. Fellas there called Ally, same word, you know. That old Afghan, he might a been their daddy or granddaddy, I reckon,’ he chuckled and reached for his tobacco tin which was on the bed beside him. The rollie paper stuck to his mottled lip, he looked down at his hands as he rubbed the tobacco, grinding the soft pad of one hand into the palm of the other, the top of them covered in patches of hair springing from pink and brown scabby skin. He rolled the tobacco into a thin line that fitted the crease of his palm, took the paper from his mouth, wound it around and licked its seal. The cicadas and the grasshoppers clicked and buzzed like some metallic beast outside. A light movement of air seemed to pass through from the east and heat radiated downwards from the roof. The match scraped the box and she smelt the sulphur then rich, harsh smoke. He stared through it, eyes moist. He paused and rolled the butt between his forefinger and thumb. He looked up. ‘Do you have any family out here?’ she asked. ‘Not that’ve come forward,’ he chuckled, then wheezed. ‘What about back in Ireland? He squinted, looking away from her. Not speaking for a while. ‘This’s where I belong,’ he muttered. She wanted to ask the bush man more about himself but his eyes had left her and he started to cough. He waved at her and she assumed it meant she was to leave him alone. Later that afternoon the truck arrived with the cattle. She heard it from her room and from the veranda she watched it

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pass by the homestead, wheels churning the fine dirt into liquid and the last of the sunlight catching the bulldog emblem on its bonnet. The children poured eagerly from the kitchen with their mother following. The driver released the horn and it sounded like a big tug. She offered to take the boys with her down to the yards but Susannah said it was their bath time. When the dust settled a little, Laura walked to where the road train had pulled up beside the cattle ramp. She called hello to the driver and he acknowledged her with an exaggerated salute. She climbed four sets of rails to open the gate on the other side of the yard so that the animals would be able to run through into the paddock where there was a trough. The driver pulled back the gate on the truck and stood away from the opening, prodding an animal through the gap in the rails with a piece of black poly pipe. She could see a velvet nose pressed between the rails, snorting the strange air, and a wet brown eye. The cattle shuffled and squashed each other against the side of the truck. Heads angled downwards. They bellowed from deep within their throats, a noise only their mothers would recognise. One of them stepped forward, forced into the lead, others quickly following, coloured in all shades of black, brown, grey and white with loose velvety skin and large ears that flopped and flicked, backwards and forwards. They were exotic creatures, nothing like cattle she had ever seen before, except perhaps in photos of Asia. They were only half grown and their flanks were sunken and ribs rippled their skin. She noticed Irish at the yards a few metres away. Both hands were holding the rail above his head and his face leant in

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towards the gap. The cattle had bunched up on the other side beneath the shade of a tree. ‘Them cattle no good,’ he said when she came up to stand beside him. ‘Make bad mothers. If a dingo attack a calf. That mother she gone like that.’ He drew his head back and brought his hands down from the rail to slap his palms together. He looked at her for the first time and she noticed his skin was flecked like light-coloured granite. ‘Old Billy Carsen, he had some over his place. He reckoned if you didn’t wean them real young they suck the old girl right through until she has the next calf and it starves the next calf.’ He shook his head again. ‘They’re terrible cattle.’ He spat into the yard. ‘They reckon a brahma cow will suck herself and the bulls will suck her. Or you get a cow with a calf and the young bulls following her around. That calf ’s buggered then. ‘The last fella brought in a couple of bulls,’ he continued. ‘Few years back. They lost them. In the hills. Scrubbers now with a bit of brahma in them. The only way to get them out is with a bull catcher.’ ‘Really,’ she said. How did you catch a wild bull? She looked through the gaps in the rails at the animals with doe-like eyes and long lashes. The afternoon sun cast shadows in the gullies that ran down from the hills. The windmill behind the yards groaned and a gust of wind rattled the scraggly leaves of the nearby tree and it sounded like rain. The driver climbed down the side of his

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truck and walked over to where they were standing. He could have been any age, wearing small black shorts, faded grey, and a sleeveless shirt revealing ropy muscular limbs. ‘A member of Johnny’s new team eh?’ He grinned and took a packet of cigarettes from the top pocket of his shirt and held them out towards her. ‘The name’s Steve. Here, have a tailor.’ His nails and hands were dirty. She shook her head. ‘No thanks.’ His attention shifted to Irish. ‘What’s happening, old fella?’ Irish leant up against the yards, spitting before he spoke. ‘Mustering that bloody black soil country. He’d be a couple of men down I reckon after those fellas pulled out a few weeks back.’ ‘Yeah I heard he got Texas and his mob working for him.’ The driver turned to face her and pushed up the greasy brim of his hat. She crossed her arms over her chest. He responded with a lazy smile. ‘Johnny and the jillaroo. Where do you hail from?’ ‘London. I’m travelling around Australia,’ she said. ‘I’m just here for a few weeks to see what it’s like on a station.’ She didn’t like the way her words sounded. Then she realised what he’d said and looked away. ‘And now you know eh? Just plenty of heat and dust and flies. Ain’t that right, old man?’ He flicked the butt on the ground and stepped on it. ‘Well I better get going. Gotta get this rig out to Morrison by the morning.’

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She heard the truck start up and it moved off, chugging through its gear changes. The cattle had spread out in the yards, some reaching the water. Irish shifted his weight forward and inclined his head towards her. She realised he hadn’t finished. ‘You know there’s a bit of water in that creek over there. Catch a few fish when it starts getting hotter. They got plenty of fat on them then.’ He shuffled his feet around until he was facing the direction of his camp. He seemed to be a man who didn’t mind talking, as long as it wasn’t about himself.

III Mealtimes were awkward, eating with strangers, although it was easier tonight since John was apparently spending the night out at the stock camp. She told Susannah what Irish had said about the cattle. ‘The owners want to turn this into a place for breeding brahmans,’ Susannah replied. She was sitting where John usually sat. ‘What these people don’t realise is that brahmans are better suited to the tropics. When you crossbreed them with shorthorn, the calves are bigger and they grow faster. They’re also tick resistant and they cope better in the heat.’ Laura reached for the salt.

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‘You wouldn’t have seen them in England?’ Laura paused, her fork about to enter her mouth. She put it back on her plate. ‘No,’ she said, carefully. ‘I’ve never seen cattle like that before. But I visited a ranch in the Camargue in France. They had small black cattle. I don’t know what sort they were.’ Laura picked up her fork again. She looked across the table. Strands of hair had escaped from Susannah’s ponytail and they hung lifelessly around her face. Her eyes might have been brown or hazel. Laura wasn’t confident enough to hold her gaze for any length of time. But she noticed that Susannah rarely varied the type of clothes she wore. It was always shorts and a T-shirt. This evening her T-shirt was red and the fabric appeared soft and faded as though it had been washed too many times. She might have been in her late twenties or perhaps she was older. Narrow lines marked either side of her mouth. Laura took a deep breath. ‘I don’t think you really want me here.’ Susannah’s knife and fork clattered on her plate. She looked at Laura, her eyes startled as though caught in bright light. Laura thought she might cry but then she stared past her, towards the window. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said after a moment, her gaze returning to Laura’s. ‘I didn’t mean for you to think that. Oh god, perhaps I did. It’s just that . . .’ ‘It’s okay,’ said Laura quickly. ‘I thought maybe I should leave. It’s not really what I expected anyway.’

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‘Oh no. Please . . . Don’t do that.’ Susannah was frowning deeply. She pushed the hair back from her face. It was Laura’s turn to look away. ‘It’s just that . . . he thinks he can make all the decisions.’ Laura didn’t know what to say. She was embarrassed to have blundered into something so personal but it felt good for the words to have left her head. ‘You must stay until the end of the season.’ Laura realised the older woman was pleading. She was tempted to ask why, was it for her, or was it for some other reason? The thought of leaving was attractive, but then her travels had been planned around a station experience and if she left now, what else was there to do? Susannah cleared her throat and sat straighter in her chair. She reached over for Laura’s plate. ‘You finished?’ ‘Yes.’ Laura joined Susannah at the sink and together, they washed and dried the dishes. The noise the plates made when Laura set them down on the bench seemed unnaturally loud. But she wasn’t about to interrupt the silence again. Susannah stepped back. ‘I’ve got something for you. Wait here.’ A few minutes later she returned with a brown stockman’s hat. ‘If you’re going to be working outside, you really need one of these. The sun’s fierce. You don’t want it to age you.’ Later that night when the moonlight penetrated the dark corners of her room, Laura couldn’t sleep and it felt as though

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her bed was floating. She raised her arm to remind herself it was connected to her body, so strange she felt in this place that seemed to have no definition. She was glad of the ceiling with its grey patches above her head, shielding her from the startling space of the sky. So she would stay for the season, whatever that meant. She wondered why she hadn’t been comforted by Susannah’s attempt at friendship. Perhaps because it had appeared to be such an effort. The hat would be useful though. It was something she could take back to England. Show off to her friends. It seemed such a long time since they were all together for her send-off at the bar on the high street. Although part of that night she preferred to forget. Towards the end of it when they’d had too much to drink, Ben had leant heavily on her and mumbled in her ear that she’d changed. She wasn’t a nurse any more. But it was how they met, working on the same wards, how they became friends. Then on the way home he insisted they have sex. ‘You know you want it,’ he said. And wondering if perhaps she did without knowing it. A few glasses of red reducing her ability to remember clearly. Not sure what she’d said, if there was anything she’d done to lead him to think that. She spent the night with him out of guilt, and she couldn’t wait to get on the plane. Another friend, Anna, who came to the airport with her, said: ‘I think he suddenly saw the real you and decided he liked what he saw.’ But who was the real Laura? Anna didn’t say.

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IV Laura reversed the ute out of the shed and drove across to the other side of the yards and pulled up alongside the hay. It was stacked in rectangular-shaped bales wrapped in two pieces of twine. Standing on top of them, she had worked out that she could lift one carefully onto the fence and then tilt it and roll it down into the tray, since they were almost too heavy for her to place on the back of the vehicle. The cattle had begun milling around the gate. If there was anything that pacified them it was feeding them hay. She’d been tailing the young cattle since they arrived a few days ago. John explained that if the weaners were let out in the bush they’d run wild and be difficult to muster later. It was her job to ride around them, get them used to a horse so they’d be quieter and easier to handle. She remembered the first day back on a horse. The men had returned from camping out in the bush to replenish their supplies of stores and horses. At breakfast John said there’d be a horse ready for her at the yards. The grey horse in the round yard looked up and its eyes followed her as she came through the gate. It was a dirty grey with eyes that wept. She carried the bridle over her shoulder, and as she entered, the horse moved away, angling its tail towards her. She walked in a tight circle, hoping to head it off, to get it to stand, but it trotted away. The gate behind her opened. ‘She behaving like a mongrel?’ The man she’d met on the journey from town walked towards the horse with his arms outstretched.

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‘Hah,’ he said loudly when it looked like it was going to trot off again. He wrapped his arms around the horse’s neck and he held out his hand for the bridle. ‘Oh, it’s fine. I can do it.’ Laura came around to the front of the horse and fitted the bit into its mouth and tightened the strap around its neck. ‘Thanks,’ she conceded. He held the horse briefly by the velvety skin of its nostrils until it flicked his hand away. He grinned and slapped it gently on the rump. ‘Good old girl.’ Laura led the grey out to where she’d left the saddle and looped the reins over the rail. The reins were different from what she was used to and the stock saddle was bigger and heavier. The horse stood quietly while she pulled up the girth, blowing gently through its nostrils, flicking its head to unsettle a buffalo fly. She looked across the seat of the saddle towards the man who had helped her and remembered his name was Texas. He opened the gate to bring in the rest of the horses. She led the horse through another gate and out into the paddock, savouring its warm, earthy smell. It was patient as she adjusted the length of her stirrups and swung up into the saddle. She leant over its neck and stroked the hair behind its ear. More men were at the yards. Their shapes moved between the rails and at times they sat perched above them. A wasp whined and circled her horse’s head. It snorted and the bit jangled. Green parrots chattered and flew from the white

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branch of a gum to another. Black ants trickled down the trunk and leaves clattered together as the wind moved through them. She faced into it and took her feet out of the stirrups, letting her horse doze, its head resting on the bit in its mouth. She watched the cattle, small silken-skinned animals with velvet ears, gaze warily and nudge each other into lines. Every now and then she roused her horse to step slowly around them, carefully turning the strayers back towards the others. The men had lit a fire at the yards and horses were tethered in a row along a rail. She heard the sounds of metal banging on metal and realised they were shoeing. The cattle settled and wandered about looking for grass. She noticed the bank of hills behind the homestead and the shadows that darkened the dirt. The line of trees in the distance indicated the creek as it zigzagged through the valley, passing below the yards, with another, smaller one joining it and leading away from the homestead. She’d discovered that one was just a dry bed of sand. The horse stiffened, alert, neck curled back towards the gate, nickering softly, like a spring that was tightening. She gathered the reins and pressed with her knees. The horse started to step a little one way and then another, pushing ever so slightly against her control. Horses streamed from the open gate, riderless, biting and squealing and kicking high. She held her horse tightly, nervously, unsure of it now, unsure of how far it would test her. She tightened one rein and turned it in on itself while hooves clattered over the rocky ground, dust hanging in the still air. She noticed the weaners had bolted along the fence line and behind her a horse galloped and halted, reined up by

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Texas. He sat firm as it protested. He grinned and wheeled his horse around. ‘Come on! We’re taking the horses back to the horse paddock.’ She followed at a carefully controlled canter as they circled the mob of free-moving horses, eventually reaching a gate. They ushered the stock through and positioned themselves between the gate and the weaners that followed. She found it exhilarating. Then they rode along the fence line back to the yards and her horse’s gait lengthened beside his and saffron light leaked through the gaps in the trees. He’d joked with her, teased her about her questions. It seemed that the English were always known for being ill prepared for the outback, for thinking that all roads led somewhere, for calling a creek a stream. There were no fields, only vast areas called flats and paddocks. After she dropped hay from the back of the ute at regular intervals, scattering it in a long line so all the animals had an equal share, she returned the vehicle to its place under the shed. John’s four-by-four was parked in front of the homestead which meant he would be in for dinner. When she reached the gate into the homestead yard, she noticed there was another vehicle, the battered Toyota she’d occasionally seen the stockmen using. She hoped it might be Texas. He was crossing the lawn as she was and he stopped and told her they were moving camp; they’d be mustering towards country where two rivers met, like a forked branch. It was called the junction. She liked the way he squinted into the horizon when he talked and then looked back every now and then into her face. Frown marks were etched deep

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between his eyes, and his brows were thick and dark, but his mouth was ready to smile. The door of the kitchen banged shut behind them. The sound of footsteps on the veranda followed and then John was standing at her elbow. ‘You better get going if you’re heading back tonight.’ His attention was on Texas and he didn’t acknowledge her until Texas had moved away. She was disappointed that John had interrupted their conversation. ‘Laura,’ he said as she started to turn away. ‘Early start tomorrow. Heading across the river to pick up some gear.’ ‘What time?’ she asked. ‘Leave about four-thirty.’ ‘Okay. Great.’ She opened the flywire door into her quarters. Perhaps she would see where Texas was working. As she stepped inside, she remembered the sound of his voice.

V Laura moved self-consciously around the kitchen. Taking the bread from the toaster and placing it on a plate, the harsh sound of the knife scraping the surface and the bright neon light; assaults on the senses which expect to be lulled at that time of the day by darkness and quiet. Aware of the other person in the room and the intimacy of the moment when he

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asked: ‘How do you have your tea?’ A question that somehow seemed inappropriate. Headlights shone a path through the bush and they flushed out a kangaroo and the slinking flash of a dingo. They stopped in front of a pair of wide metal gates joined at the centre by thick links of chain. Instead of waiting for her to open it, John stepped out of the vehicle and walked along the fence line which was coming into focus with the bright edge of light threading through a thin layer of cloud in the east. A bird called from the treetop, a pure piping melody amplified by the still morning air, and it went on and on and then stopped and others began. Dove calls followed each other, like a dance, weaving in and out of the trees. And then over the top another chorus began, a crazed gathering of sound, echoing, and gold light shone into the leaf canopy revealing a pair of blue-feathered birds. John disappeared into the undergrowth and the sun striped the leaf litter and the sticks that crunched beneath her feet. Up ahead, she could hear the sound of his footsteps and she followed their direction. At times she thought the Australian bush looked barely alive with its broken branches and trees with no leaves, but, unlike the English deciduous, they were stark timber sculptures, bleached grey by the sun, which perhaps with the next wind or storm would be turned into mulch. Suddenly noise filled the spaces, of heavy animals crashing and bush breaking and dust dense like fog, and through it she caught a glimpse of cattle rushing towards her and then they veered away and the scrub closed behind them. The cattle had kicked up fine grey sand, and shafts of light fell through the gaps in

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the trees and caught the dust as it stayed suspended in the aftermath. She could see the silhouette of the cattleman. He was in the middle of a clearing, bending over something, and behind him was a trough and the strained corner posts of two lines of fences, meeting at right angles, and beyond, a low grassy hill. Her boots sank into the soft sand, pitted and potholed by the movement of many cattle. She realised on reaching him that he was standing over an injured calf. He straightened and pushed up the rim of his hat when he saw her. ‘Bloody dingoes.’ She looked down and the calf ’s head moved and then the horror. That it was still alive although its backside had been eaten. ‘Grab my gun will you, it’s behind the seat.’ She walked back to the vehicle, worrying there might still be cattle among the trees, but the bush was silent, even of birds. The lever on the seat would not release, and after several attempts to get it to come forward, she thought she was going to have to return without the gun. The sun was warm through the window and she was beginning to sweat. She gave it another try and it flung forward and the gun lay there behind the seat in which she had sat. It was in a leather case and carefully she lifted it out and carried it across the sand. John was investigating the trough and she handed it to him and then walked over to the fence corner, staring past it, noticing the animal trails weaving through the grassy clumps to the top of the small hill. The shot seemed to rearrange every cell in her body. The sounds of birds lifting en masse, collectively startled, eventually faded

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like a final echo. She turned back and witnessed John dragging the calf by its front leg into the bush. Together they returned to the vehicle, her steps matching his. Something like this was to be expected, and if he thought she might be affected by it, she would show that she wasn’t and that she understood. He emptied the cartridge, dropping the bullets into his trouser pocket, and replaced the gun behind the seat. The vehicle continued along the two-wheel track. Sometimes the dirt would be red and soft and then other times it was like gravel, hard and scattered with rock. They crossed creeks which seemed only to exist for the suggestion of water, the beds lined with blue sharp-edged stones and John carefully eased the vehicle over them to avoid puncturing the tyres. There were two spares, he explained, but after that it’d be a long walk. They drove onto a black-soil plain and the track became pitted with cracks; the grass on either side, dense and tufted. ‘Bloody good cattle country all through here,’ said John. She wound down her window and gazed out to her left, nodding her head slightly to signal her interest; silvery grasslands stretching to the river line of trees in the distance, the continuity and consistency suggestive of man’s involvement, although she suspected that wasn’t really the case. ‘What kind of grass is it?’ ‘Mitchell and native millet,’ he said. Along the way John named the trees. Through the red country it was snappy gum and crocodile and bloodwoods. And by the watercourses there were coolabahs and ghost gums

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and paperbarks, and out in the flat country, the bauhinias and the kurrajongs. ‘Bloody good tucker. You can fatten cattle on this. But you gotta have good cattle. No use these bloody half-breed animals that’ve been running wild around the place. It’ll be the bloody jewel of the Kimberley when I get it sorted out.’ ‘Are the men mustering around here?’ The vehicle slowed as they came upon some rocky ground and he brought his other hand up to the wheel. ‘They’re north-east of here, the other end.’ He turned to her. ‘Problem is, trying to get good people to work for you.’ She caught his glance and looked away. By mid-morning they reached the river. On the other side of it the track continued and headed towards some ranges that from a distance were shaped like waves. It took several attempts for the vehicle to get through the soft sand of the riverbed and she hopped out and stood in the middle of the deep trench to watch. There was a slip of water to drive through, but most of it was dry, and it was impossible to imagine a robust, flowing current above her, swiping the upper branches of trees where a tangle of flotsam still resided. Upstream something glinted in the sun. Perhaps it was where the river widened, or maybe it was rock. She climbed back into the vehicle and as they drove up the bank John pointed to the red hill in the distance. On one side it was steeply curved and there was a narrow gap between it and the rest of the range. ‘There was a blackfella apparently hid up there, had all the

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bloody police after him, murdered some fella who stole his woman, or tried to, something like that.’ ‘Really? What happened to him?’ ‘They got him in the end. Chased him somewhere out here.’ He gestured to the area on his right. ‘He put up a pretty good fight, they reckon.’ She looked across the dashboard, through the windscreen. The country was the same as it had been all along, and there was nothing there that signified a past she could recognise. As they drove closer towards the range the shape of it filled more of her window. Without a watch she didn’t have much idea of the time, but when they stopped again for a gate she realised the sun was overhead. She struggled to open the gate since it was made of wire and timber and she couldn’t work out what she needed to do to release it. John opened the car door and he was grinning. ‘I was waiting to see how far you’d get with that old cocky gate.’ He reached down to a wire band that seemed to hold a piece of timber wedged between the fence post and the gate. He slipped it off and the gate collapsed. They were back in the vehicle. ‘Bloody pain in the arse those gates. We’ll be replacing all of them and putting in more fences all round the joint.’ Laura realised she was hungry and thirsty and she was about to ask how far when the track rose a little and turned a corner and there were buildings huddled at the base of the

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hill that marked the end of the range, with a creek running below them. ‘This place used to be another station. Too small now to be viable.’ ‘Does anyone live here?’ she asked as they pulled up in front of a fence, white paint peeling to reveal rust-coloured railings. The entrance into the yard was marked on either side by painted wagon wheels. ‘The buggers haven’t done any watering by the looks of it.’ He opened the car door and placed one foot out into the dirt and then turned to face her. ‘Oh yeah, couple of Swedish fellas been caretaking the place.’ She followed him through the gate. A bougainvillea seemed to have taken over one end of the house and the lawn had yellowed and gone to seed. Windows were covered by metal shutters which presumably had the effect of screening out the sunlight but letting in the breeze. The building was L-shaped and at the end there was a flywire door which was ajar. ‘Stupid buggers leaving the door open. Letting in the bloody snakes.’ He held it open and called out, ‘Hans, Sven, you in there mate?’ He stood in the doorway and took off his hat and scratched his head and looked around. ‘I reckon we better go and have a look over at the sheds.’ They started around the other side of the house and heard voices. Two men were walking through the long grass towards them from the direction of the creek. When they reached the yard, she realised they looked more like boys. One of them was blond and flushed, wearing a light-coloured T-shirt and long

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khaki shorts, and the other was dark, with thicker, wavier hair, collared shirt and shorts. Both wore long socks and boots and were without hats. They were carrying a bucket between them. ‘What are you up to you blokes? Leaving the bloody door open. Get a bloody big snake in there you’ll know all about it.’ They glanced at each other, and at John, and quickly at her, smiling. The blond answered: ‘We catch some little fish.’ He held up the bucket and inside it were fingerlings swimming in brackish water. ‘What, there’s water in that creek?’ ‘A little,’ answered the darker one and then he turned to Laura. ‘Hello, I am Sven and this is my friend Hans. We have been staying here for three month. We are from Sweden.’ ‘I’m Laura,’ she smiled and for some reason she didn’t bother mentioning that she was from England. ‘Put the billy on, what do you reckon?’ John was heading towards the door. They sat around a dirty formica table in the dimly lit kitchen. The remnants of recent cooking lay scattered about the bench and the sink. The kettle was whining on the stove as the metal started to heat. A fan overhead pushed the warm air around but did little to dispel the closeness. ‘Would you like some food?’ asked Hans. ‘Mate. Not if it’s any of that fish in a tube stuff,’ said John and he pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘Got a few sandwiches in the esky.’

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‘How did you come to be out here?’ asked Laura. She was sitting with her back against the wall on a low bench, glad to be out of the vehicle and finding the heavily accented English a little unexpected. Hans disappeared through a door to her left and Sven, who was assembling cups on the bench, said: ‘Our Kombi van broke down. We didn’t have enough money to get it fixed. The mechanic said they needed a caretaker. So they pay the mechanic while we are here. We stay here for three months.’ ‘So where do you go for supplies and food, that sort of thing?’ John returned and slapped the sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper on the table. ‘There’s a roadhouse,’ said John. ‘Here, help yourself.’ He looked at Laura and opened the paper around the sandwiches. ‘There’s a track on the other side of the creek. Shortcut to the highway. About an hour or so away. That’s where they fixed the Kombi. Going all right now?’ ‘Yes but the track is very rough. We only go there two times. It takes much longer, maybe two hours.’ Hans entered with a cardboard box and a tube of some sort of paste. While Sven poured hot water into cups, Hans opened a box of crispbread and pointed to the tube. ‘This is Swedish caviar. You must try. We buy it in Darwin.’ His face was still rosy, particularly his nose and cheeks. His eyes, framed by pale lashes, had a glassy look that suggested he hadn’t slept for a while. ‘Mate. Tried it last time. Think I’ll stick to the roast beef.’ ‘I’ll have some. Thanks,’ said Laura.

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It tasted like fishy mayonnaise and she took a large mouthful of tea to wash it down. John drained his mug and picked up another sandwich and stood up. ‘Sven, give us a hand, mate. Lift a post-hole digger onto the back of the Toyota.’ He looked back at Laura. ‘You finish your dinner. I’ll be back in a bit.’ ‘Would you like some more?’ asked Hans. The fan continued its idle rotation above their heads. ‘I’m fine thanks.’ She looked around. ‘So what’s it been like?’ Her eye followed the shelving along the wall and above the bench and sink; most of it was empty except for the odd pale blue plate, some light-coloured bowls and old-woman teacups with delicate handles and saucers, placed there, she decided, by someone who must have been hopeful. Hans glanced at her and then to the left of her shoulder; he looked as though he’d been crying, but perhaps he was just sunburnt. ‘It has been very quiet. No people. No one. We see John two times, maybe three. And we go to the roadhouse two times. In the north of Sweden it can be like that sometimes. When the snow is very heavy.’ ‘So what do you do?’ ‘One day we went for a walk. We tried to climb the hill. It was very hot. There was a big lizard like a dinosaur. Very big. And then we see it again with a bird in its mouth. Here.’ He gestured to the door. ‘And it swallow the bird and its stomach, you could see the bird in there.’ He shuddered. ‘We do not go far.’ Laura wasn’t sure whether she believed him. As big as a dinosaur.

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She stood up and placed her mug in the sink. ‘I think I might go outside. Have a look around.’ Hans stood up quickly. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll come with you. ‘You know,’ he said when they were beside the oleander bush in the middle of the yard, ‘there is a strange sound here every night. Like rain but there is no rain.’ He looked at her. ‘When do you leave?’ His face relaxed a little. ‘In ten days’ time.’ Across the yard she could see the low line of the shed roof and from that direction she heard the vehicle start up. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ she said, turning back towards him, smiling in a way she hoped was reassuring. And then behind him she noticed, above the roof of the homestead, some sort of aerial, obviously no longer in use, with a creeper entwined around a horizontal bar and the vertical bar above it. From this angle, it looked like a crucifix made of bush. ‘How do you contact anyone here?’ she asked. ‘There’s a phone at the roadhouse,’ he said. John pulled up at the fence and Sven got out of the vehicle. ‘I think we’re leaving now.’ His eyes left hers. ‘Enjoy the rest of your travelling,’ she added. She glanced back quickly before the homestead was obscured from sight. There was no sign of anyone. John looked in the rear-vision mirror and then at her. ‘So what did you think?’ About what? she wondered. And then: ‘They seemed very nice.’

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‘Not bad blokes. A bit useless. Went without power for a week or so. Couldn’t work out how to get it going again after they ran it out of fuel. They put more fuel in but didn’t bleed the injectors so they had air in the fuel pump.’ ‘I spoke to Hans. He seemed a bit . . .’ She searched for the right word as the landscape slipped beneath the vehicle. ‘Nervous.’ ‘There’s always something to spook you in this country. If you go looking for it.’ ‘They’ll be all right?’ ‘Bloody hell.’ John braked and the vehicle slowed. ‘Did you see that?’ ‘What?’ Startled, looking to where John was looking, suddenly aware that her sense of well-being was easily disturbed. ‘What is it?’ The vehicle stopped. John opened the car door. But he stayed where he was. His eyes searched the scrub, which in that section of the track had closed in, with the range rising steeply behind it and the gullies shaded like folds in fabric. ‘It was a bloody big cat. I’m sure of it. Biggest cat I ever saw. The size of a dog.’ She was thinking lions, tigers. ‘Not much point in getting the gun out. It’d be long gone.’ ‘What sort of cat?’ she asked as his attention returned to the middle of the road and he pushed the gear into first, the vehicle slowly gaining speed. ‘Cat gone wild. You know, like a domestic cat. The thing is, it’s a few generations on, and god knows in this country, with plenty of tucker, what we might end up with.’

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The vehicle retraced their tracks, occasionally deviating slightly when John avoided a rock or a dip in the road. The constant bumping, changing down a gear, slowing for rough patches, changing up, the sun slipping lower so that at times it shone directly into her window, brought on a pleasurable somnolence that seemed to suspend time. They reached the river which, other than the line of ranges they were leaving behind, was the most defining aspect of her landscape. The light had yellowed and with it, green became green-gold and the blemish-free limbs of the river gums glowed. As they descended the bank, she thought of being stuck there, sunk in sand that was striped now by shade. But John took the vehicle through a slightly different route where the ground was firmer and they got to the other side without any trouble. The top of the bank was covered in grass. When they reached it he stopped the vehicle and turned off the engine. Birds rose nervously from the treetops like fluttering triangles of paper, shifting across the sky in formation, noisy and indignant as they settled again in the trees on the far side. ‘Corellas,’ he said. He offered her a can of beer from the esky. They sat side by side on the tailgate of the vehicle. She was feeling comradely while he began to talk. He became more expansive, revealing his passion for the country, how his grandfather had taught him to ride and describing the place that would have been his. Then he moved on to how Susannah made him feel, saying that his wife didn’t understand. That she never appreciated how hard he worked. The job was tough, always battling against people

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who wanted to keep things the way they were. It was nothing like running a few sheep down south. He had to prove to the boss he could do it and he had to prove it to his bloody wife as well. Unlike the old man Irish, John had no reticence when it came to talking about himself. Sitting overlooking the riverbed, birds riotous and intrusive, Laura felt included and then, after the second beer or was it the third, he jumped off the back of the vehicle and stood in front of her, placing both hands on her knees. ‘Laura,’ he said. His head was tilted upwards and his hat fell off, revealing oily blond hair pasted to his skull. She realised he expected her to lean towards him, kiss him perhaps. ‘Ever since I saw you, I knew you felt the same.’ Fuck. What was it about men that they didn’t realise she was only being friendly? That she was just being polite, showing an interest in what they were saying. She’d enjoyed his company, his knowledge of the country, but for godsake why did it have to end with sex? She watched with horror as his hands moved from her knees, up her legs, his fingers sliding across her jeans, touching her inner thigh, and then he grasped her waist, his body leaning closer, his breathing louder. She remembered Ben and felt sick. The sympathy she felt when he told her about his relationship with Susannah evaporated. What a stupid man. She inched backwards a bit and brought up her right knee and used her leg to push him from her. She jumped off the vehicle and moved away, looking over her shoulder, seeing

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him pick up his hat from the dirt. She followed the track away from the river. ‘Where are you going?’ he called after her. ‘It’s a long walk back.’ She heard the vehicle start and then it was behind her, its lights obliterating his face. She had no choice but to climb inside and they didn’t speak for the rest of the way. Instead of being angry, he seemed embarrassed and she knew she was partly to blame. She should never have appeared so interested.

VI The kitchen floor smelt of disinfectant and the benches were spotted with droplets of water. Laura hesitated by the flywire. Susannah glanced at her and filled the kettle at the sink and then lit the stove. ‘Cup of tea?’ asked Susannah. ‘Thanks.’ ‘Are you going to sit down?’ Laura pulled out a chair. ‘There are some biscuits on the table.’ Laura reached for one out of the jar. Susannah took another cup from under the bench. ‘Susannah,’ Laura began. ‘There’s something I want to tell you.’ Susannah straightened. Laura watched her pause before

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the window, both hands holding the empty cup. ‘Yesterday, John . . .’ ‘Look, I don’t want to know.’ Susannah turned, eyes avoiding hers. She filled both cups and moved one of them across to Laura. ‘Sometimes,’ she added, looking down, ‘it’s better not to know. You’ve just got to get on with it. Don’t you think? ‘Sugar?’ she asked, pushing the bowl towards Laura. ‘Yeah, thanks. I suppose,’ said Laura and she took a deep breath. After a while she continued. ‘But then if you don’t have all the information, how can you make the right decision?’ ‘It’s always the right one at the time. You have to think that.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Otherwise you’d spend your whole life regretting things.’ ‘I don’t plan on doing that.’ Susannah smiled tightly. ‘None of us do.’

VII When shadows lengthened and the light softened and corellas roosted in the tree above the yards, Laura slipped the bridle from her horse and gently tapped its rump to send it off out into the paddock. She had just hung the bridle on the nail beside the saddle when the birds rose again. She looked to see what had disturbed them. Metal bolts slid and clunked and

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hinges of gates groaned as the stockman moved through the barriers between them. ‘Hi,’ said Laura. ‘You need to get a swag from the missus. Boss said I’m taking you out to the camp.’ Light leaked through the finger-like leaves of the eucalypt in front of them. The skin of its trunk glowed white and galah shapes flew over its shadow. They were noisier than the corellas. Laura looked around the small bedroom, then collected her clothes from the cupboard, leaving a dress and two skirts hanging in the wardrobe. There were footsteps. Susannah held a bundle of sheets and a blanket in her arms. ‘I thought you might need this.’ Laura looked down at the torch that sat on top of the bedding. ‘Thanks.’ She took it and placed it in her backpack. ‘Is there anything else you need? From the stores?’ ‘No,’ said Laura, trying not to betray her nervousness, her sudden realisation that there would be no electricity. That she was going to be out in the bush. ‘I don’t think you should go. You don’t have to.’ Laura stopped what she was doing and looked into the face of the woman in the doorway. ‘But I want to,’ she said. ‘Yeah well, just be careful of the blokes.’ ‘Oh, I’ll be fine. I know Texas.’

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Susannah blinked rapidly and then turned away. It wasn’t like Susannah to show that much emotion but Laura couldn’t worry about it now. This was her adventure. She stuffed the bedding into the top of the backpack, fastened it and lifted one of the straps over her shoulder. Texas was waiting by the vehicle. The canvas bed-roll they called a swag was on the back and she lifted her pack on there as well and opened the door. The window was streaked by a mess of insects, squashed and spread by wiper blades. She drew a mark with her finger in the dust on the dashboard. He slid in behind the wheel, his hat almost touching the roof. The key turned over. He pumped the accelerator to inject more fuel into the engine. Something clicked and then it rattled into life, fumes filling the cab. Hot engine air breathed through the rusted cracks in the chassis, warming her lower right leg. She wondered how he could see anything through the windscreen. About twenty minutes later they pulled up at a gate. The sun had sunk behind the bush and the purple sky was darkening by the minute. She waited by the gate as the vehicle passed and, as she closed it, the motor stuttered and stopped and the sounds of the bush were suddenly amplified. A screeching erupted from the treetops which sounded almost human, and even though she knew it could only be some outback animal, it made her feel a long way from home. Her fear—or was it excitement?—intensified. Sometimes the emotions were too similar to separate. The engine took over again and Texas wound down his window to let out the smoke of his cigarette.

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He turned on the headlights and they defined the dark edges of the track. ‘Cheeky snake up there maybe. Those black cockies, they don’t like him much.’ He passed her his tin of Log Cabin and released the clutch. She attempted to roll herself a cigarette but the tobacco fell out of the paper and onto her jeans. She could feel him glancing at her every now and then. And then he slowed the vehicle. ‘Here, you gotta roll the tobacca like this. Rub it first, break it all up. See, like this.’ He handed her a slim, firmly rolled cigarette. She smiled her thanks. The taste was strong and even though she didn’t often smoke, it brought a sense of unreality that was quite pleasurable. And she was able to view from a distance her journey in the cab of that vehicle with a man she barely knew, as they glided through soft sand, bounced and rattled over potholes and corrugations, the dark behind the windows creating a mirror which reflected the flash of the match light and the warm end of a cigarette.

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Fate threw them together Fate threw them together

I It was still dark when Susannah got up to make the salt-beef sandwiches. She wrapped John’s lunch in greaseproof paper and put it in the cold room. She placed the other sandwiches in the small foam esky. She was looking forward to the trip to town. John opened the flywire door. He didn’t bother to take off his hat. ‘You got a full tank and I checked the oil,’ he said. ‘What about the tyres?’ she asked, feeling his eyes on her as she put away the tomato sauce. He was watchful. He had been ever since Laura left for the stock camp. Susannah knew why, of course, but she was never going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. There was no point. It wouldn’t lead anywhere or change anything. ‘There are two spares,’ he replied. 93

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She wiped the bench and the lino tabletop again. All she had to do was wake up the boys and put them in the car. ‘You got that list for O’Malley?’ ‘Yes,’ she said, her shoulder brushing his as she passed him in the doorway. She stepped onto the lawn, noticing the hint of light behind the hills. Small birds, erratic and cheerful, darted in different directions. She placed the esky and her handbag in the ute and went back for the boys. John left the house for the work sheds, the brim of his hat tilted towards the ground. She thought of her father and wondered what he was doing. Perhaps he wouldn’t be up yet. The sun appeared, roughly in the direction she would be travelling, and transformed the sky into coloured ripples of cloud. The wheels slid a little on the loose stones. Following the track as it curved around the thick body of a tree, she remembered the red ribbon of dirt, highlighted by headlights, as it unravelled before them the night they arrived. But she hadn’t been able to see the tall rocky outcrops that sloped away from the road. Sunlight spread from a gap between the hills and lit the spinifex clumps, glowing yellow and bright, outlined by green and the copper-coloured grasses in between. The dirt was iron red. White posts signalled the end of the driveway and the ute slowed for the cattle grid. She glanced at the boys and they all vibrated over the bars as they drove across it, laughing together. The glove box opened and a couple of cassettes fell out onto the floor. She turned towards town onto a road that was barely more than a track; the tyres rattled on top of rocks

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and caused the wheel to shake and her hands that gripped it. She drove slowly and carefully, slipping into the grooves carved by other vehicles, trying to prevent the wheels from sliding. She had to concentrate. Otherwise she might think about John and Laura and imagine what had happened between them. On both sides of the road was a chaotic tangle of grass and sharpangled rock that looked as though it was cut from a quarry. She didn’t blame John really. How could she? It was probably her own fault. She should have been more cheerful. But just thinking like that made her feel so tired. The hills had ridges like scar tissue and gullies and cracks through them that would have been carved by heavy rushing water. Trees stood out from the slopes like spindly twigs reaching for the sky, with ground-cover grasses the same colour and texture as the coarse bleached hair of a surfer. In places the grass was burnt and white snappy gums seemed naked amongst the new shoots of green. In the distance a red hill was like a lump of clay, set hard before it could be moulded. A blackened tree stump became a rearing horse. Rough dark bark, livid green leaves. A Buddha created by termites squatted beneath the trees. More mounds like the wet sand sculptures she remembered some children making on a beach. She had forgotten that holiday. Lying beside John on that beach, the two of them sharing a towel, and when he sat up, brushing the sand from his shoulders. She blinked quickly. It was another time, before there were children. She remembered he had been so attentive that weekend, away from his job. They’d driven to the sea while the overseer’s cottage was being painted. They

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stayed in an old two-storey hotel set back from the beach and because the bar was full of young surfers, they sat out on the veranda and he told her his plans and she thought his plans were enough for both of them. She wiped the corners of her eyes. There was no way back now. Her eyes narrowed. There was something on the road ahead. It was a bullock. She slowed, knowing it would move away as they got closer. A horned head turned towards her; the beast was tall with enormous front quarters that curved into a small pelvis. A meatworker steer. The car was crawling. Beside the road cattle sheltered under a tree, tails flicking their rumps. She changed out of gear and revved the engine. The bullock sprang up and trotted into the bush. The wheel was slippery. It reminded her of the night they arrived. She looked across at the boys, who weren’t big enough to see out of the window. Every now and then the road dipped for a creek. Mostly they were dry gullies but sometimes there was a puddle at the bottom to skim through. Later in the year when the rains came, swollen waterways would cross the country and prevent them from leaving the station. They would see no one for months. It would be just her and John and the children. She knew that if she tried to speak to him he would only get defensive, and then it would be her fault. It was better to leave things as they were. She became conscious of the tightness between her shoulders. She breathed deeply and stretched her fingers. Eyes on the road. Keep your eyes on the road, her mother would say when they drove into town, when she had just got her licence. Keep your eyes on the thin ribbon of bitumen that divided neighbours

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from each other, their sown paddocks and the occasional orange flowering tree, the sort of trees drawn by every school-age child for their straight trunk and the simple dense curves of their foliage. They were called Christmas trees, probably for the time of the year they flowered. It was also at Christmas the crops ripened and the air became hazy with heat and dust. Harvesters carved patterns in the paddock like the design made by a shearer’s comb as it peeled the fleece away from the sheep. She could see her mother out of the corner of her eye, sitting where the boys were now, holding her handbag on her knee. She’d be talking about what was needed for the garden, the pantry, her mind too busy to imagine another life. The sun was directly above when she came to a road sign, signalling that she was reaching a T-junction. Susannah had forgotten there could be other vehicles on the road. She turned onto the bitumen, crossing the white lines which marked the edge of the road, and straightened the wheel, the ute moving smoothly over the hard surface. For the first time since she left the house her body relaxed. She took one hand off the wheel to flick the hair away from her neck. She leant forwards, discovering her back was wet with sweat. The car followed the curve in the road. She noticed tyre marks on the bitumen, then a cow on its back; its feet were in the air, body rounded and solid like a plastic farm animal. A maroon-coloured sedan, abandoned. Its front end crushed. The animal was swollen with gas and she realised that the accident must have happened days ago. About an hour later they slowed for the speed limit on the outskirts of town. The boys had been kicking each other and

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now they were hungry even though they’d eaten their sandwiches. She turned off the road that would take her south and onto the gravel road leading into town. Dust clouded behind as they passed light-coloured fibro houses on stumps and a low-lying motel that seemed to have no windows, palms transplanted perhaps from a desert island, flowering oleanders and a tree she hadn’t seen before with bright yellow blossoms that hung on the end of weeping branches. There were buildings of brown brick and a sign which read Vera’s Fashion. White rendered arches marked the entrance to shops on the corner, and the pavement blocks met end to end over fine red dirt. Above the trees to the north were two craggy hills, their irregular shapes an offence to the regimented lines of the street. She parked in front of the co-op. When she turned off the ignition she remembered she had to drive all the way back again. The woman in the co-op was expecting her. ‘Do you want any help with the boxes?’ she asked. ‘Look like their dad, don’t they? Nah . . . don’t touch that. ‘How’s the jillaroo working out?’ she continued. ‘She’s from England, isn’t she?’ The shopkeeper’s pencil-thin eyebrows were curved like half-moons. She adjusted her high-waisted jeans over her stomach as she moved away from the till. ‘Are you okay? Your eyes look a bit red.’ ‘It’s just the dust,’ mumbled Susannah. ‘It takes a bit of getting used to, doesn’t it?’ The woman had a figure like one of the wide boabs they passed on their way into town.

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‘You don’t hear of many jillaroos around the place,’ the woman continued. ‘She’s had quite a lot of experience on a ranch in France,’ said Susannah. She didn’t want to think about Laura. The woman’s eyebrows rose a little. ‘What about the people before us? Do you know anything about them?’ asked Susannah quickly. ‘Yes, well . . .’ the shop woman began. ‘The family that built that homestead, they were one of the first mob to bring cattle over the top from Queensland.’ She paused. ‘It’s a shame really you don’t see many owners out here nowadays. Actually there’s a new manager near you. Further out. He’s a horsebreaker and she was the nurse up here. She’s from down south too. I heard she’s got some time on one of the channels, you know, on the Flying Doctor radio, for all you women to talk to each other. I’m not sure how often it is.’ Susannah had been holding the hands of her children tight so they wouldn’t pull anything off the woman’s shelves. ‘Mmm,’ said Susannah, face flushed, feeling slightly disorientated from the drive. It was the change in perspective; from watching the road as it pulled her towards the horizon, to everything being close-up and closed in. The stores were stacked in cardboard boxes at the back of the shop. ‘I’ve packed a few extra things I thought you might not realise you need. You’ll be in again next month?’ ‘I hadn’t really thought. I don’t know.’

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‘Ronnie,’ the woman, her name was Marge, called to a man wheeling cartons of toilet paper in. ‘Help, will you.’ She gave the boys a Chupa Chup each and watched as Susannah put the ute into reverse. Susannah smiled carefully as she pulled out, telling the boys to wave. She drove down the end of the street and around the block. The tavern on the corner appeared closed since the benches in the fenced beer garden were empty. Susannah was back on the road they came in on, a gravel road divided by a patch of grass where people sat in small groups. She passed the pub, turning left and into O’Malley’s yard. The children seemed happy enough in the car, sucking on their lollipops. O’Malley came out from behind the counter, his hand scratching a large stomach, offering a glimpse of pale skin beneath a khaki work shirt. She waited while he read the list. ‘What’s he want all this for?’ he said. She hadn’t looked at it. He led her out past the shelving that contained pipes and joints and tools and chemicals, and through the big iron sliding door out into the yard. They stood amongst the fencing wire and star pickets stacked beside rolls of poly pipe, tanks and trough moulds. He turned his square red face towards her. ‘More wire?’ She shrugged. ‘I think he wants a weaner paddock.’ ‘Who’s doing it for him?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘How soon does he want it?’ ‘Soon, I think.’

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He stared at her for longer than necessary. She blushed as he headed back towards the shop. ‘There’s a truck going out that way the end of the week. Soon enough, you reckon?’ ‘That’ll be fine. Thanks.’ She followed him inside. ‘There’s something else . . . um . . . Can I order some chooks?’ He leant on the counter, watching another customer pull up outside the shop. ‘Don’t recommend it.’ He straightened and looked at her. ‘If the heat doesn’t get them, the olive python will.’ ‘Oh.’ She gave a little embarrassed smile and looked away. He wrote up the account and she signed it. ‘Been out to the dam yet?’ ‘No we haven’t.’ She didn’t think John would be interested. ‘Go and have a look. Show you what man is capable of.’ ‘Yes I will. Thanks. I’m sorry. The kids are in the car.’ He opened the shop door for her. She looked back as she reached the vehicle but he’d gone. Ned’s swollen eyes peered from above the part-open window. He hiccuped with sobs. Ollie was looking guilty. ‘Bloody hell, can’t leave you two for a bloody second.’ The wheels spun on the loose gravel and she turned onto the road more quickly than she should have for they shot over the graded edge. Out of the corner of her eye she saw them fall. Ollie bumped his head on the door handle. Wailing and screaming. Shit. She slowed down and looked over at them. They kept howling, only one of them hurt, the other in sympathy.

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She noticed a track to her right signposted Swimming Beach and followed it, pulling up in front of a timber bench in a clearing surrounded by long grass and tall trees. Beyond the bench was the river, like a mirror that reflected the few white shapes of cloud. After a little while, ripples panned out from a drop of something or perhaps a fish kissing the surface. She had heard of the man-made lake O’Malley was talking about. There had been an article in the rural newspaper she’d worked for, celebrating some anniversary of the time it was built. The wall would be upstream from here. A dry-stone wall built between hills to create an enormous dam. An engineering feat, it said, with so many tonnes of water pushing hard against it. The dam filled when the rains came and the creeks swelled and fed the river that wound through the country before it came up against the wall. She imagined the water gradually leaking out into the country like a sheet pulled up over the land, smothering its history. Slowly rising above the footprints, the places where people camped, where babies were born, where people lived and died, rising above the grass, the rocks, the trees, fences, yards, bores, windmills, workmen’s quarters, sheds, houses. Each feature of the country, man-made or otherwise, belonged to someone’s memory, never to be revisited or added to. Meanings lost over time. She remembered the dam had filled sooner than expected. There wasn’t enough time for the station owners to clean out a homestead that had been in the valley. Part of it had been transported to another site, but the newspaper story said that if you were to dive down below the surface you would dive through trees, past a windmill, then into what was left of the

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homestead. And if you put your hand under the tap in the bathroom, you could still feel the water that leaked from it. Eventually the children came to her, wiping their mucus across her shoulder. Moist faces tucked into her neck. She patted their backs absently. When did it all start? This feeling of being beneath water: slow and cumbersome, every movement met with something thicker than air, some form of resistance she was unable to see. Memories before marriage had become like blurred, exaggerated images. She seemed unable to speak for herself and she didn’t know what she liked or didn’t like any more. Even the clothes she wore seemed to have been chosen by someone else. The children’s bodies pressed against hers. She patted their backs again without thinking. The children fed the crusts from their sandwiches to little red birds. Crimson finches hopped and nodded, collected and bobbed, disappearing when the food was gone. Reeds rustled and the water soothed. Downstream a hill lay upside down in the river, its redness reflected precisely against a sky that seemed so deep she sensed another existence. She showed the boys a tortoise as it popped up from the shallows. They squealed and it pulled its head in, slipping back into the depths. She left them to paddle in the soft mud. The dark shapes of fish swirled around further out. She emptied the esky and flicked the crumbs onto the river surface. The water boiled as fish with whiskered mouths rose to reach them. She retrieved the children before they walked too far into the water, wiping them down as best she could. They wanted to stay but she had to get going.

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There was one more place to stop. As they sat together on the car seat, one was crying, the other angry. ‘Shush. I’ll get you an ice cream. Anything, just be quiet.’ She drove around to the rear of the pub, parking in the shade. A group of people sat cross-legged in the dirt between her and the door. They were noisy and argumentative and a man stumbled out, clutching a bottle in a brown paper bag. Speaking loudly and rapidly. Another stood up and pushed him. He stumbled easily on the loose gravel, his arm holding the bottle up and away from the dirt. ‘Eh missus. You got a smoke?’ He grinned and removed the old stockman’s hat from his head with an elaborate gesture. She didn’t know where to look. ‘Sorry.’ ‘You know,’ he called after her as she moved quickly past, ‘when I been a young fella I ride like cowboy.’ She quickly entered the dark, cool interior of the bottle shop where a man read a newspaper on the counter. ‘Yeah.’ His eyes stayed on the page. ‘Ten cartons of Gold and five of Pepsi. And five bottles of Bundy.’ He reached for the rum and placed it on the counter and then left through the side door. She waited. A few minutes later he returned with some cartons stacked against a trolley. ‘You close by?’ She led him to the vehicle. As he moved out the door he locked it behind him. The same man who asked her for a

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cigarette lurched towards them. ‘Eh mate, you got five dollar?’ ‘Come on old man. Don’t annoy the lady.’ They reached the back of the vehicle. He turned to Susannah. ‘That old fella, he used to ride bareback at the rodeo. Won it every time. They called him the Eagle.’ ‘What station was he on?’ ‘He worked all around. The other fellas did too, they don’t work like they used to.’ ‘Why’s that?’ she asked as he stacked the grog on the back of the ute. He shrugged. A light breeze twitched the butterfly leaves of the bauhinia tree and passed through the open windows of the car. Ollie was in the driver’s seat making engine noises, pretending to drive, and Ned was kneeling on the floor, lining up a Matchbox car and a truck along the vinyl folds of the passenger seat. Through the windscreen she could see the group of men they’d been talking about by the door of the bottle shop. They were all standing now. The old guy was facing a younger man, who also wore a stockman’s hat, and she could see from the way he was gesticulating that he was angry about something. Others in the group looked on and then occasionally they glanced back towards the bottle shop door. Someone appeared in the doorway and they moved away. She suddenly felt guilty for watching. The sun was low when she pulled out onto the main bitumen road. She’d refuelled and organised fuel supplies for the station. It would be dark now when they reached the

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turnoff and she hoped she’d be able to find it. As she drove, she realised there was something she’d forgotten. She ran through the places and the items she’d either ordered or collected but nothing came to mind so she turned up the volume of the country and western tape that she’d retrieved from the floor. The vehicle rattled over the stones and then she remembered that she hadn’t phoned her father. She’d promised to get in touch in her last letter. He’d be feeding the chooks and putting the dogs away now, although Lucy, the border collie, was allowed inside these days. She used to think she was close to her father, and after her mother’s funeral she’d tried to tell him that she wasn’t happy. ‘You have to make the best of it,’ he said. ‘It’s what your mother would have wanted.’ She didn’t mention it again. But sometimes she wondered why they’d bothered to pay for her education. She could see her mother helping them move into the married couple’s house on the property where John had been working. Turning over the dirt by the back fence and planting some vegetable seedlings, leaving instructions in her neat rounded writing on how to look after them. She also planted pink geraniums in pots they placed by the door and seeded the lawn. There was no sign of the cancer then. But her mother had known. She said she hadn’t wanted to make a fuss. Not when there had been a wedding to organise. Susannah had brought her mother’s Country Women’s Association cookbook with her. The pages were well worn and there were notes in the columns. It had been her mother’s before her. Not only were there recipes for food but there were instructions on how

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to make a tanning mixture for skins, how to wash a fleece, and how to calm the nerves with stout and beetroot. She remembered the title of one of the chapters: Hints that Help in the Home and Preserve the Temper. She couldn’t think of her mother without seeing the outline of her body under the hospital issue blankets. It was such a shock to see her like that and to realise that her mother was never going to help her plant anything again. Someone had said, or perhaps she’d read it, that the moment before the end was peaceful. She’d tried afterwards to confront it, the destruction of the body. Her mother beneath the ground. It was supposed to be the cycle of life, like the dead lamb in the paddock with its eyes pecked out by crows. But facing death was like looking into the sun. You had to turn away. Beside her in the red dusk light, the children lay on the seat. Bodies and heads twisted at odd angles while they slept. She envied the suppleness, their ability to contort, seemingly without pain. The sun slipped behind the earth. The trunks of the bloodwood faded, the leaves were less vivid and the dirt became ordinary in shadow. She wondered sometimes, if she hadn’t married, perhaps her mother would have saved herself. Perhaps she would have gone to the doctor. If only she’d known she was ill. But her mother wasn’t the sort of person who talked about herself and it was only when Susannah rang and discovered her sleeping in the middle of the day that she began to worry. By then she was pregnant with the twins. By then it was too late. Before her mother’s last visit to hospital, Susannah drove to the farm on her own. She’d wanted to talk to her but

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when she got there she didn’t know what to say. The messy detail of her life had seemed so insignificant compared to what her mother was facing. Through the kitchen window the sun had fallen behind the land and Susannah had wondered how the sky would look when her mother was gone.

II Susannah recognised the man at the veranda door. He touched the brim of his hat. ‘John around?’ ‘I think he’s in the house.’ She left the man standing outside the kitchen. She couldn’t remember his name, even though she’d only met him the night before. ‘He won’t be long,’ she said on her return. ‘I’m glad I’ve seen you. I wanted to say thanks.’ He grinned shyly, revealing badly crooked teeth, eyes unable to meet hers. She’d known as soon as it happened, the steering wheel suddenly tugging hard to the left, that she had a flat tyre and that she’d have to change it, out there in the dark on the side of the road. There were five of them in the old Landcruiser, lights on full beam as they came up over the creek bank. The children had been still. Uncharacteristically quiet. Watching her, eyes startled by the spotlight. When the men got out of the Landcruiser the boys thought that one of them might have

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been their father. The men told her they were shifting camp, up to the station. Three of them stayed sitting on the back of the vehicle, talking in low voices, spitting, a match flaring, briefly illuminating the features beneath the hat. ‘Where you from?’ the driver had asked. She told them. ‘John’s missus?’ There was a murmur and the others chuckled. They were stockmen from the neighbouring station. She didn’t get home until after eight. Now the man turned away from the house to meet John as he came up the path beside the laundry. They both wore fawn-coloured hats that showed the dirt, with brims turned up on the side and flattened at the front. She couldn’t see their faces and anyway it was difficult to tell them apart with their checked sleeves rolled up to reveal capable forearms, brown boots beneath the long straight length of jeans, hands tucked into belts, and standing with their legs apart, leaning back, shifting their weight to the heels of their boots. The other man backed away and turned towards the yards. She could see he wasn’t happy about something her husband had said. She watched John cup his hand around a cigarette and light it. When he came through the kitchen door she was wiping the table. He took off his hat and placed it on the chair. ‘Ready for smoko?’ he asked. ‘There’s fresh bread and jam.’ ‘No rib bones left?’ ‘No.’

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‘Where are the kids?’ ‘Playing, I think, in their room.’ ‘When did that fella say the truck was coming?’ ‘End of the week.’ ‘Yeah but what day?’ ‘I don’t know. He just said end of the week.’ John squashed his cigarette into a saucer. ‘I want those bastards to get on with it.’ ‘Who was that?’ she asked. ‘Mike, fella from next door. He reckons our mob have mustered some of his cattle. They’d be cleanskins if they were.’ ‘So what’s he doing?’ ‘He’s gone to have a look.’ They sat in silence drinking their tea. John buttered two slices of bread and layered the jam thickly. He held the whole concoction up to his mouth. Without looking at him she could see the jam oozing over the side of the bread, forming a drop which was about to fall. He swallowed noisily. She continued to look up at the top row of louvres, thinking how the sky was framed into bricks of blue. ‘You all right?’ he asked with his mouth full. He wiped the corners with the back of his hand. ‘Yeah fine.’ ‘Boys been good?’ ‘Yeah, pretty good.’ She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, turning them slightly so that she faced him. She saw he was easily satisfied. He ate the rest of the bread and drained his tea. She took his plate and cup and put them

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in the sink and turned on the water. A little frog leapt from the sink to the windowsill, lightly brushing her hand with its cold skin. ‘You watching them when they’re outside? Don’t want that joe blake coming back,’ he said as he moved towards the door, putting on his hat. ‘Of course,’ she said without looking at him. She washed up and dried the dishes. Paused, the dishcloth in her hand, hearing the drone of the lighting plant and the bored call of a crow, a corella shrieking for its mate, the sound of wings pushing through the air as they flew low over the garden and then silence and she imagined she could hear her own heartbeat. John was returning. He poked his head in the door. ‘Forgot to tell you. I said to Mike we’ll give him a feed when he gets back.’ She looked at the clock on the wall. For some reason lunch was called dinner in the north. And then after that everyone knocked off for a couple of hours. It was something they all did, to escape the heat of the day. The face of the clock was like the one above the dining room table at the farm: black numbers on a white face. The clicks became louder, so much louder, eliminating all other sounds. Her mother used to say she thought too much about things. The lino pattern on the table moved, its red and yellow rectangles shimmering. What else was there to do but think? Her fingers felt the blood move through the vein in her throat, pulsing like time.

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A child was crying. She returned the paperback to the bottom of the cupboard with the others. How long had it been? Outside cicadas sizzled and the light was harsh. She reached the boys’ bedroom and found Ned leaning up against his bed with the stripy sheets. Clothes spilled out of the drawers into the middle of the room and in the corner were three cardboard boxes for the toys. They were empty and the toys were all over the floor. She moved carefully between a front-end loader and a ute and then over a farm animal. Her feet stepped on something that scraped the floor like big grains of sand. She looked down and then at Ned, catching his wet, frightened look. They had broken her necklace of seed pearls, a gift from her mother for her eighteenth birthday. Ned started to whimper. ‘What happened?’ she asked quietly. ‘Ollie did.’ ‘Did what?’ She stared into her son’s glassy eyes. They were so clear they could have been fake. His lips were a shiny pink. Slightly open, they showed his small white milk teeth. She hated him. ‘Pulled it,’ he said and his mouth formed the words slowly. His fist came up to his chin and he pulled down his hand. She noticed the red mark around the skin of his neck and the cotton thread hanging over one shoulder. ‘Where’s Ollie?’ ‘There.’ He pointed towards the door that led to the hallway. She could smell perfume. Further down was the main bedroom.

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Ollie was crouched beside the old dresser. To his left was the window that looked out onto the veranda. Light shone from under the frayed edges of red curtains and over some of the clothes from her wardrobe which had been pulled from their hangers and onto the floor like a lumpy bridal trail: her orange backless dress made out of cheesecloth, her striped cotton pantsuit with the lace around the collar and the sleeves. She stepped into the room and nearly slipped on something oily on the wooden floor. Nearby was a bottle of Opium. Ollie grinned at her. She stepped back, gripping the door carefully, and closed it on everything. She used the leftover meat from a roast the night before last, cutting it up finely and mixing it with curry powder, fried onion, apple, Worcestershire sauce, marmalade and milk. The curry was cooked in half an hour and she served it with boiled rice and a salad made from lettuce, tomato, onion and tinned beetroot. She placed a pile of buttered bread on the table and poured the boiling water onto Bushells tea in the teapot and left it to brew by the stove. She heard the men’s footsteps before she saw them. They went around the outside of the kitchen to the laundry to wash their hands in the concrete tubs. She’d remembered to leave a towel for them. Boots thumped the floorboards as they took them off. John opened the door and rubbed the sweaty hair from his face, standing aside to let Mike in. Mike nodded in her direction but kept his head down as he placed his rollie stub on the edge of the table. The flywire door banged shut behind them. She put plates in front of them. ‘You’re not eating,’ said John.

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She had no appetite. He filled his enamel mug with black tea. Static and muffled voices seem to seep from the rectangular box on the edge of the bench. ‘What’s that?’ asked John. ‘What? The radio?’ ‘That,’ he said. ‘Is it the kids? Sounds like crying.’ ‘Oh yes. I hear it now,’ she said. ‘Could be.’ ‘Aren’t you going to check on them?’ ‘I need to serve up.’ He looked across at Mike and then stood up, scraping his chair across the floor. She poured Mike his tea and asked if he wanted some milk. He nodded and she could sense he was uncomfortable being left alone with her. John returned with the two boys: Ollie clutching his father around his neck and Ned holding firmly onto his hand, both with red wet faces and making small hiccuping sighs. ‘They must have closed the door on themselves. Made a bloody mess of our room. They won’t do that again.’ He sat them at the table and she could feel the children watching her but she concentrated on making their sandwiches. Gradually they seemed to regain their shape, like grass that has been stepped on. When one of them knocked over the sauce bottle and the other put his fingers in the sugar, John asked if she could take them outside; he needed to speak to Mike. Sitting on the veranda with the boys’ plates beside her, their sandwiches cut into small neat squares, she watched them run through the sprinkler, laughing and shrieking. She felt so far removed from them, as though they might have been someone

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else’s children. Her anger was gone and she was surprised that she didn’t feel anything. She was on the edge of it all. Sometimes she could hear the men’s voices, slow and low, but she wasn’t sure whether it was Mike or John. The door slammed and one of them was putting on his boots and footsteps moved the boards beneath her. It was that time of the day when nothing much happened. No banging sounds from the work sheds or movement in the yards, but clothes still soaked in the tub, the soapy water turning brown. She lifted the wet clothes through the hand-held wringer attached to the concrete sink and water slopped down the front of her shirt and shorts, making tracks through the dust on her legs. She had her shower in the evenings now like her husband; even though she couldn’t see the dust blowing, it was there, in the air, attaching itself to everything.

III Susannah was hanging the washing and the camp cook appeared on the other side of the shirt she was pegging on the line. She only knew him as Cookie, as did everyone else. She stepped out from behind the clothes, a cool wet leg of a pair of jeans brushing her shoulder. He told her that he’d come back to collect more stores, and since she had the key in her pocket, she left the washing where it was. He walked ahead of her, stepping lightly and quickly. She noticed because it was different

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from the way everyone else seemed to move, as if they were conserving energy, and it reminded her that it was weeks since she’d seen anyone except her husband, and occasionally Irish. She thought briefly of Laura. She made a note of all the things he was packing into a box. ‘The young fella, Tommy, he’s always asking for beetroot.’ He reached for another tin. ‘You heard he come off his horse the other day? They reckon he was chasing a micky when a big old scrubber turned back on him. Jimmy threw his hat down to take his attention and Texas picked him up out of the dirt before that old bull knew what was going on. They reckon Tommy’s old man got a bit of money and sent him over from Queensland to straighten him out. Done something bad on speed or something. He’s not going home now. It’s in his blood. Adrenalin they reckon’s the best drug of all.’ He was a small skinny man with a black singlet trimmed in red that was tucked into a belt with a large silver buckle. He looked up from the box he was packing. She noticed the outline of a bare-breasted woman drawn on his shoulder and a dagger running up the inside of his forearm. She remembered the last time they spoke, when she’d asked him why he was here. She’d thought he wasn’t going to answer. ‘This tattoo on me chest,’ he said and looked down. It was just below his neck. ‘That’s the date I went into Pentridge and on me back is the day I left.’ When he walked out she saw the date above the neckline of his singlet. There was five years in between. This time she

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followed him out to the Toyota and watched him load the boxes onto the back. ‘So how much longer have you got out there?’ she asked. ‘Dunno. Depends how long the muster is. Whether they get all the cattle first time round.’ Susannah missed the routine in the evening when the men had been mustering the home paddocks. There was a different head stockman then. It was a couple of months ago. Cattle sounds would drift across the thick afternoon air and later the men would come up to the homestead for their nightly allocation of alcohol. She was supposed to open the cans so they didn’t stockpile their beer, but if John wasn’t around she didn’t bother. She remembered the night she discovered that some of the men had left. The trees and fences had darkened against the soft rosy glow of the horizon. She unlocked the cool-room door. As always their eyes were shielded by hat brims and they muttered their thanks, gathering in the cool air of the lawn. She noticed some men were missing. ‘Reggie’s shot through,’ said John at tea time. ‘Has he?’ ‘Took Alex and Sam with him.’ ‘How?’ ‘Had his ute here. Parked out the back.’ She meant how was it that her husband had let it happen, but perhaps she should have asked why. But then she already knew the answer. He hadn’t listened to what the men had been trying to tell him. He didn’t know the country like they did. He had all the theories but none of the practical knowledge. Her

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eyes traced the familiar shape of his head and the tiny moonshaped scar on his forehead. A chicken pox scar, she learnt not long after they met. She noticed the skin on his face had darkened even though he never went anywhere without a hat, and in places around his mouth, his eyes, there were lines. She realised they were both getting older. ‘What are you going to do?’ ‘What do you think?’ he said defensively. ‘I’ll find someone else.’ It would be difficult to find another head stockman in the middle of the season. She reached over for his plate and stacked it beneath hers and backed away from the table. And then Laura arrived. It was about a week after the other men had left. Susannah had just put the children to bed when John’s vehicle returned from town. The headlights switched off with the engine and the sound of car doors closing seemed to echo afterwards like the ring of light she could see in her eyes after the bright beams had gone. There were men’s voices, low, husky Aboriginal murmurs and another that sounded like a woman’s voice. Susannah walked out on to the veranda. The insects were thick around the globe and she flicked them away from her face, distracted for a moment. They came closer, the man, her husband, and the woman who was perhaps no more than twenty, her skin like a child’s, smooth and shiny. John was looking at the girl and so was the tall stockman standing beside the vehicle. Susannah was suddenly aware of the differences between them. It was as though the woman had held up a

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mirror and in it Susannah could see her own reflection. It showed Susannah what she’d become and she hated it. The fan whirled above them giddily as she made tea. Susannah pulled at the thread on the seam of her T-shirt, watching the stitches of the hem unravel. What should she be saying? She was furious, almost speechless with rage, unsure yet at whom to direct it. She tried to keep her head steady but the more she thought about it, the more it seemed she couldn’t control it. She could see what the men saw. A singlet stretched tight and a gold chain disappearing between the curves. ‘It took forever to get out here. The distances are amazing.’ Susannah blushed, realising Laura knew she was staring at her breasts. Laura stirred the sugar into her cup. Susannah noticed the leather bracelet around her wrist and her English accent. The door opened and John stepped back into the room. ‘The new head stockman’s called Texas,’ John said. ‘He’s worked out here before. The others are his relations, Gary and Jimmy.’ John nodded towards Laura. ‘I left your pack by the door to your quarters. My wife’ll show you where to go.’ What was she doing here? And John looking so pleased with himself. Susannah caught Laura’s glance and saw her eyes were soft like a young animal’s. The dust stayed suspended above the track long after the cook’s vehicle left for the stock camp and Susannah remembered what he’d said about Laura. That Texas was looking after her. It was such an absurd name: jillaroo.

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IV Ned pushed open the kitchen door with his tricycle and rode out onto the veranda. Ollie followed, whining that he was thirsty. They saw their father and the bore mechanic Gerry. Ollie was pushing Ned’s bike around the veranda, faster and faster until it crashed into the kitchen wall. They giggled madly. Susannah locked the cool room and pulled the boys inside. The light was bright in the kitchen, white and obvious. She poured two glasses of milk. Voices leaked through the half-shut louvres. The sky lost its colour. She stood over the stove finishing off the mashed potato to have with their steak and thought of what she still needed to do for tea. The evening air reminded her of the farm; walking home towards the lights of the farmhouse, the mallee-root smoke spiralling into an orange sky, leaving her boots by the door and washing the grease from her hands. During the years between school and journalism she sometimes worked for a shearing team contractor. She’d spend the day sweeping the woolshed floor, sorting the stain from the dags, picking up the fleeces and throwing them for the classer or threading the needle for the shearer to stitch a sheep that had had its skin split. Her father would have been drenching or treating flystrike or mending fences. She’d tell him where the team had been and what the sheep were like. They’d drink their beer and stretch out their legs and her mother would ask when they would like to eat. Susannah wondered if she’d asked and how was your day? Would her mother have said that she spent

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most of it in the kitchen and that it was suffocatingly tedious? But perhaps it wasn’t like that for her. John came and went, taking the cool-room keys and returning them. She placed two bowls out on the bench for the children, spooning mashed potato and boiled vegetables into them. The meat from the frying pan was cut into small pieces and stirred with vegetable mixture and flavoured with tomato sauce. Ollie moved his spoon around in his food, using it like a shovel to make a hill and then a road. ‘Eat,’ she said as she always did. Ned bit down on his spoon and refused to take it out of his mouth, nodding up and down as though the spoon was a beak. He thought he was funny, pecking Ollie’s shoulder. Ollie pushed Ned and he fell sideways, his elbow knocking the bowl off the table and onto the floor. She knelt carefully, spooning the food slowly into the bowl, and then picked up the child. She sat with him on her knee, jiggling him up and down until he stopped crying. But she let him remain there, snuggled in under her neck as she listened to the voices outside. John was talking. He was telling a story and fragments found their way into her kitchen. Except that she knew it wasn’t his story. John had never worked in the north until now and it sounded like a story he might have read from his collection of Australian stockman’s autobiographies. They always seemed to have been written by men who had either retired injured to their Sunshine Coast apartments or who were driving taxis in the city because they’d run out of other options. She imagined their wives being so

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tired of the yarns they lived, even after the view from their kitchen window had changed. When her mother was dying she talked a little about her early married life. Her memories of seeing for the first time the little cottage she was to live in. She said there was nothing there, nothing surrounding it, only sand and then fence and paddock. Whilst her mother talked Susannah glanced up and out of the window to the gaily coloured flowerbeds and the oasis of a well-kept lawn and an exotic weeping willow. Her mother became animated by the memory and asked Susannah to find the photos. Susannah remembered staring hard into the black and white picture where everything seemed a different shade of grey. The square fibro cottage stood beside a tightly strung fence of ring-lock and barbed wire. Her mother had other stories. There was the heatwave of 1964 when Susannah, a one-month-old baby, had almost died of overheating and her mother had sponged her every hour until the heat broke with the crack of a summer storm. Lightning cut through the darkness and lit the farm in pieces, splitting the newly erected jam-tree fence posts, and then the rain came in fat warm drops. Looking at Ollie on the other side of the table and with Ned squirming to get down from her knee, Susannah shivered, and thought of illness, of accidents, of being so far from anywhere. It was also a fear of being unable to escape, a claustrophobic fear of being trapped in a story that was not of her making. When she tucked the boys into their beds Ollie wrapped his arms around her neck, pulling her closer. Awkwardly, she

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pressed her cheek against his, bending over his bed. After a while she pulled back but his little grip held tight. ‘Tell me a story,’ he asked. ‘Let go,’ she murmured. He released her and she sat down on the edge of his bed. The two little boys were like chrysalises, cocooned in their pale sheets. When she was a child she dreamed of dressing in her mother’s cast-off nightie because it was soft and fairy-like and when her pony, who was called Mischief, came to her window in the middle of the night she would climb on its smooth warm back, wearing her flyaway dress, armed with her bow and arrow, and they would follow the animal trails through the bush to the granite where they would live forever and hunt crows. She returned to the kitchen as her husband was pouring rum into a glass and for some reason it irritated her. He noticed she was watching. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. She shrugged, leaning down towards the oven door to retrieve their meals, trying not to let it show that he annoyed her immeasurably. But just looking at him across the table after she’d placed their plates opposite each other was too much. ‘God I hate this place,’ she said furiously. Hating him. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ ‘What’s wrong with me? Look at yourself. Who do you think you are? You grew up in the city. You don’t belong here. None of us do.’ She glanced down at her plate and then back at him. ‘How long do I have to put up with this?’

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‘You’re not the person I married. You’ve changed. Since your mother died.’ His eyes were blinking rapidly, hurt. ‘My mother’s got nothing to do with it. Perhaps you were thinking you were marrying someone else.’ Before he could answer, she added: ‘Do you realise how boring it is?’ His eyes hardened. ‘You’re so bloody ungrateful. You don’t have to find two hundred steers out in this country. Get them to the meatworks. You’re not the one who has to answer to some boss in Perth.’ ‘At least you get something for it,’ she muttered, her energy spent. Her knife cut awkwardly through the meat that was tough and dry. The thick yellow fat was the only thing worth eating on the plate, fat flavoured by the animal’s diet of spinifex. The cutlery scraped the plate. When she looked up she stared slightly to the left of her husband’s face at a spot on the wall where there had been a picture. She wondered what it might have been like. She could see it silver-framed, a scene of white sand, waves and, beyond, a glimpse of glistening turquoise water. Any sign of human activity seductively absent. That evening he took off his clothes before his shower, unrolling the sleeves of his shirt, pulling the press-studs apart, and she wondered what it would be like to be married to someone else. The fan creaked above her bed and the tattered ends of the curtain wavered with a rush of air. He left his hat on top of the dressing table and his clothes on the floor as he walked naked across the hall to the shower.

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He turned off the light and sank into the mattress, causing her to roll into the middle. With his weight on her she felt as though she would slip through the springs. In the half-light she saw the curtain sigh, and through it she heard a dingo howl and the lonely bellow of a cow in trouble.

V She was washing the kitchen louvres and thought of the dam, how the water must have covered some of the country Irish was talking about. She imagined what it would be like beneath the surface, how far down it would be dark, traces of trees, in black silt, a forest of ideas submerged. When her boys were men, where would they belong? Perhaps they wouldn’t need to feel as though they belonged anywhere in particular. She knew that not everyone was like her. It only became important when she was so far from home, so far from where she started. She thought of the farm where she grew up. It was different now that her brother was working alongside her father. One day he would inherit the property. Even now she could trace the topography of the land in her mind, remembering the yate-tree swamp and the small clumps of acacia, the banksia scrub surrounding a little knob of granite, and attached to all those places were memories of her and her family’s experiences. But she realised there was another way of knowing a piece of land, a slice of country, other than merely living there. It was learning

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what came before. Irish had many stories about the people he knew and the yarns they told. They were like the broken strands of a spider’s web floating in the bush after someone had unthinkingly walked through it. Once they would have connected. And it made Susannah think of her own fragments of memory, which included the young Aboriginal woman who came from the hostel in town to help her mother with the ironing. She didn’t stay long and Susannah recalled her mother telling her that the poor girl had been from the Kimberley. It was a long time ago, and Susannah was probably only about eight or nine, but she remembered that the young woman never spoke. Susannah had never thought of her again, until now. She realised that the woman’s story might have been connected to all the other things she didn’t know about the country in which she grew up. There was always the excuse of not being told, but neither had she listened nor seen, nor asked questions. Memories could lie submerged in the still depths of the dam without ever being disturbed.

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Men fell prey to her angel eyes and her killing ways Men fell prey to her angel eyes and her killing ways

I Texas turned off the engine and one of the men stood up. Laura recognised it was Jimmy by the shape of his hat and his grin. The other men were seated on drums and tree stumps and swags, the lower half of their faces illuminated by the fire in the middle; behind them their hat-wearing shadows moved about on the corrugated-iron wall of a shed. Jimmy said something quickly or perhaps it was in a language she didn’t understand. Texas laughed and climbed out of the vehicle. He lifted a box from the back and disappeared with it around the side of the shed. She hesitated and then reached across for her backpack. Texas returned and picked up her swag. ‘Here, I’ll show you where to put your gear.’ She followed, attempting to see the ground where her feet touched it, and then they were on the other side of the shed 127

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and a small gas lantern on a table revealed the shape of the place. The shed was open on two sides and Texas took her to an area on the other side of the wall, opposite to where the men were sitting at the fire. The place was shadowed by the shed but she could make out the shape of an iron bed without a mattress, on which he put her bedding. ‘Can I move the bed inside?’ she asked, thinking she would prefer to be under the roof of the shed where the floor was concrete instead of dirt. ‘Better out here. Nothing fall on you. You know, like ant or snake,’ he chuckled. ‘Here this is a good place. Quiet too. Them fellas camp over the other way.’ She placed her pack on the bed and quickly felt inside for the torch, shining it on the ground in front of her. A man she had met briefly at the homestead, a man who introduced himself as Cookie, was standing at the table which was more like a bench, since it was too high to sit at and each end was welded to the supporting metal posts of the shed. Hanging above it were blackened slabs of meat suspended from butcher’s hooks. ‘How you going?’ He looked up. ‘Wasn’t expecting youse back tonight.’ He continued wiping the bench. ‘So you come out to do a bit of mustering eh? That’ll be a bit of fun. You want to watch out for this fella,’ he nodded at Texas, ‘he make you work hard. You want something to eat? There’s a big pot of stew by the fire. Grab yourself a plate, there’s the knives and forks and when you’re finished wash your stuff up and put it back in here.’

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‘Yeah, and if you don’t do what you’re told, eh Cookie? What happens? No tucker.’ Texas picked up his plate and turned and caught her eye. She smiled and let go of the torch in her pocket to reach for a plate, at the same time glancing over at Cookie, who was no taller than her, his face clean shaven except for the Mexican-looking moustache. His eyes were black and they caught the lamplight as he grinned. She settled on a flour drum with a plate of stew on her knees and the talking seemed to fade. One of them would say something quietly, not loud enough to hear, and another responded with either a small grin or a noise that sounded like a suppressed laugh. Occasionally she caught one or two of their words and she was reassured that they weren’t talking about her. She remembered Jimmy and Gary. Jimmy was related to Texas and Gary might have been as well. She couldn’t remember what John had said on their way out to the station. Cookie told her the others were Peter, Tommy and Maxwell. Peter was the solid guy in a blue singlet with red trimming and a voice that was deep and hoarse. Maxwell was an older man who leant in towards the fire, his elbows resting on his thigh, and Tommy slipped a quick glance towards her. She assumed they were all local Aboriginal people except for Tommy and the cook. She looked around for Texas. The cook walked between her and the fire and poured some liquid into a mug and sat on the edge of a swag. Texas appeared and bent over, pouring tea from the billy on the ground. He straightened and moved to a seat on the other side of the fire.

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She waited for him to acknowledge her but he turned towards the men. ‘Got everything you need?’ the cook asked. ‘I think so,’ she said, her hand fingering the outline of the torch. Someone reached over to the long white branch that snaked away from the fire and pushed it in further so that the embers crumbled and sparks spat briefly. The flame licked the dry wood, brightening, and produced heat that all of a sudden she could feel. ‘Where’s the toilet?’ she whispered. ‘Mate . . . there’s the old thunderbox out in that direction but I wouldn’t recommend it. Better off just going out on the flat.’ That night, lying beneath a sky so immense that it was both exhilarating and alarming, finding it impossible to sleep, she wondered whether she would be able to explain to someone what it was like to step out into a place that was defined by different shades of darkness, with only a torch, with only a funnel of light sweeping the dirt in front of her. Before she went to bed she’d done as Cookie suggested. And when she thought she was far enough away from the camp she’d switched off the torch, and squatted beneath a sky studded with light, watching the men move in front of the fire, hoping that while she could see them, they couldn’t see her. It was something she could never have imagined, like asking for water so that she could clean her teeth, and making a bed as the night breeze lifted the sheet before she had time to tuck it into the mattress. She thought of the neon lights in the West End of London and

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the people below them, who never knew this great swathe of natural light, and she felt privileged and brave. The day began in darkness. Someone ran an iron bar along the side of the shed and it woke her instantly. Then she heard the cook call out and more sounds drifted across the flat, horses snorting, and the clinking of metal bits and she felt as though she hadn’t been asleep for very long at all. Around the fire it was much the same as the night before except there were fewer men since two of them were rounding up the horses. She was offered stew and tea, and while she nursed her mug, a line of light defined the edge of her world and then extended out, gradually revealing the dimensions and everything within it, and she was surprised by how normal it all looked. Wheel marks in the powdery dirt revealed which way they’d come the night before. The tracks led towards some yards about two hundred metres away which they must have driven past. She followed the men there when it was time to begin work.

II The metal was still warm from the sun. She pushed the gate closed and the noise of the hinges grinding unsettled some black cockatoos roosting in the bare branches of a dead tree. They rose into the violet sky, calling, krurr, krurr, the sound fading as they flew off into the distance, tail feathers flashing red. She secured the gate by tying pieces of wire together that

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hung from the frame. Tommy was on his horse, holding the reins of her gelding. ‘You reckon we got all night,’ he said impatiently. She and Tommy had walked a small mob of cows and calves back to the paddock they had come from while the other men loaded steers onto a truck. They’d spent most of the day drafting cattle in the yards and it was about seven kilometres back to the camp. She took the reins from Tommy and tightened them around her horse’s neck and swung up into the saddle. The sun was a big red ellipse sitting sideways above the land to her left and it seemed to liquefy into ripples as it approached the earth. They were riding across a treeless plain, like the black-soil plain John had pointed out during her last drive with him. She realised she didn’t feel anything for him, not even disgust. She was just glad that nothing more was said about it and she didn’t have to see him very often. Susannah was difficult to understand and Laura wasn’t sure whether she could trust her. Even if she had been a little more approachable recently, Laura was careful to respect the differences between them. Laura knew her place. She just didn’t expect it to be so well defined in the outback of Australia. Tommy spurred his horse into a trot. She gathered up the reins and did the same. The windmill in the distance and the feathery tops of trees beside it were black silhouettes against the glow of the sinking sun. She thought of Texas, perched on the rail, his legs angled casually beneath him, squinting into the dust, calling out instructions. When something went wrong,

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when a cow was drafted in with the steers which meant the mob had to be run through the yards again, he called out and joked with the blokes. They always did what he asked. It was his eyes that drew her in the beginning, set above high sculpted cheekbones. She wondered what they saw when they looked away into the distance. Imagining his dry, hard lips pressed against hers: kissing the mouth that was framed by deep folds of skin. The horse changed pace and she sat deep into the seat of the saddle, the outline of the yards ahead. She gained on Tommy and urged her horse faster, calling out breathlessly over her shoulder, ‘Race you.’ The hooves of their horses thudded the ground that was uneven in places and she pulled up short of the horizontal rails of the yard. In the half-light she could see the shape of men moving between them. The truck had already left. She climbed off her horse, short of breath, and led it through the opening. Its flanks were heaving. A man was walking towards her. His face was featureless against the pale light of the sky. It was Texas. ‘What you thinking eh?’ Her smile slipped off her face. ‘That horse maybe break his leg, flying across the flat like that. Black soil you know. It got holes all through it, and he stumble, then you go and he go. Tommy, you know better eh?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Before you let them go, rub them down. Get the sweat off.’ She followed Tommy’s lead and used the saddle blanket to rub the damp white marks from her horse’s shoulders and

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neck. It stood patiently, more subdued than when she first climbed on it. The horses were released into a yard with the others. Her horse lowered its head as though sniffing the dirt, then knelt and rolled sideways and onto its back. Squirming and turning in the dirt, and then standing, shaking the dust, as another horse came up to nuzzle it. She hung the bridle on a post and climbed over the rails. Tommy was standing by the fence. ‘You staying there with the horses?’ ‘Is he angry?’ She fell into step beside him as they walked towards the glow of Cookie’s fire. The other men were already there. Tommy leant sideways and a long thread of spit fell to the ground. He shrugged. ‘What you worried about anyway?’ he said, glancing at her. ‘Nothing,’ she said, moving away from him, towards the other side of the shed in the direction of her bed. The air was cooling quickly. She placed her hat on her swag and found a jacket, her skin prickling with the strangeness of it all: the darkness descending and the bed out in the open, the sounds of cattle bellowing across the flat, the smell of a campfire, and Tommy’s rudeness, but she was determined not to let any of it overwhelm her. The only way to manage it in her mind was to exist in the moment. Everything else was too far away. They ate fresh steaks from the cow that was killed that afternoon. Cookie fried up some sweetbread as a treat for the men. Texas told her it was the best part of the beast, the

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pancreas and the thymus gland. He was sitting on the flour drum to her right. ‘Sorry about before,’ she said to the side of his head. He turned. ‘You ride better than when you were up at the station. When you were waving your bum in the air. If that horse stop or get spooked,’ he made a noise through his teeth like a whistle, ‘you go like this,’ making circular motions with his finger. ‘Sit back eh, with longer stirrups. That’s the best way, eh Maxwell?’ Maxwell’s features creased into a grin and he repeated, ‘Yeah, best way.’ She was conscious of the body beside her, the air in between. Sometimes he glanced sideways and his eye held a promise, but then it was gone and she thought she was mistaken. The same thing had happened the night before. She had lingered, after the others were gone, sharing a cigarette with Texas, but then he had stood up and said he’d see her in the morning. Tonight he hadn’t said anything. Cookie was on the other side of the fire, the last man left. The light flickering on his face as he stared into it, revealing spots of redness on his skin. He looked up. ‘You like that horse-riding lark?’ ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve always loved it.’ She was disappointed that Texas had gone but she wasn’t going to let it show. ‘Them beasts they don’t like me. I can see it in their eyes.’ She laughed. ‘You just got to show them who’s boss.’

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‘Never been much good at that,’ he grinned. ‘They always know I’m a short arse.’ The fire spat sharply. Cookie stood up. ‘Sing out if you need any hot water or anything,’ he added. ‘Thanks.’ She heard footsteps behind her and Texas returned to his seat. ‘Hey Cookie, you’re not leaving us yet?’ Texas was grinning. ‘Surprise, look. Hot stuff.’ He held up a small bottle of rum. Cookie let out a low whistle and sat down again. ‘Mate, where did you get that from?’ ‘Truck driver. He’s a beautiful good fella.’ ‘Yeah I reckon,’ said Cookie. He looked across at Laura. ‘You know this place’s a dry camp. That bloody manager don’t let you drink, except when you’re up at the station. A can a night and then it’s only bloody Gold.’ Texas tilted his head back and drank from the bottle. She saw the outline of his neck, the bare skin of his throat. He offered it to her. And after she drank, and it brought tears to her eyes, she took it over to Cookie. Texas was watching, and the rum hit the edge of her heart, bringing warmth. ‘I’ll leave youse to it,’ said Cookie. Texas moved closer to Laura. His mouth tasted like rum and tobacco and his swag was far out on the flat. The ground was hard and unyielding, and their skin slid together and the heat within them combined. She lay on his arm and stared upwards, and the world curved around in a great arc from one side of the swag to the

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other and the moment became more than a memory, it was part of her.

III Sitting astride a flighty chestnut filly, Laura looked down towards the timber that marked the meanderings of another river. Texas wasn’t in sight. When she thought of him, her body reacted in the same way as if he was there, as though he had touched her. On the first day of mustering she was told to follow a small mob of cattle on her horse. More cattle were being driven towards her by the men. Suddenly she realised she was in the wrong place and it prevented them from bringing the two mobs together. Cattle had gone in every direction. Tommy hadn’t let her forget it since. She was mortified, ashamed of not knowing where she should be, of getting in the way. It was an intense, sickening feeling low in her stomach, and it reminded her of that day she’d gone fox-hunting. Now she looked back, she wasn’t sure why she had accepted Chloe’s invitation. Her parents had been firmly against it. They were teachers at Mill Hill County High and had campaigned for years to have fox-hunting banned. Chloe’s father drove them in his leather-seated Range Rover up the M1, towing the horse float with Samson and Princess, as the yellow eyes of cars penetrated the thick fog that began to lift once they passed through Luton. Winter-bare trees

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emerged from the mist and flicked past the window. They left the motorway for a slip-road that wound through the Northamptonshire countryside where low cream-coloured walls crisscrossed the fields, and eventually they reached the village green where the hunt was gathering. Her horse sidestepped and started at the red jackets and leapt a little with the baying of the hounds and the sound of the huntsman’s horn. Jodhpur-clad buttocks rose and fell to the trotting pace of the horses, and she followed, trying to control her horse, which was behaving badly, moving like a crab and sideswiping horses that tried to pass, attracting the ire of their riders. Chloe’s blonde bobbing ponytail disappeared into the distance. She was wandering through the Northamptonshire laneways, hearing the horn and the hounds faint in the distance, her horse lengthening its stride; the riders were nowhere to be seen since they must have turned off at some point before she was able to see where they went. The sun broke weakly through and if she’d only known where she was, she might have begun to enjoy herself. Sometime later when she had turned down a lane which she thought would cut back towards the village, the baying of hounds grew louder and then the master of the hunt clattered over the wall in front of her and through the open gateway into the opposite field. He turned back and gesticulated furiously towards her. She had longed to be somewhere else. And it was like that when the cattle had gone in different directions and she knew it was her fault. It was worse in some ways since the men, or Tommy in particular, seemed to have expected that she would do something like that anyway. Since then Tommy

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had decided he was her teacher, a role he seemed to relish and there was often a patronising edge to his help. But most of the time he preferred to tease and remind her of the moment when she got in the way. The other men were still wary of her but Jimmy had started calling her aunty. She thought he was Texas’s cousin. He seemed to be too old to be his nephew. But she liked being called aunty. It made her feel included. When she asked Texas about it, he said it was because they were married, like kangaroo marriage. She’d replied lightly, ‘So that means you love me.’ Wanting it to sound like a statement. ‘Yeah might be,’ he grinned back. And he held his horse closer and leant across from his saddle to push the hair back from her face. Tommy was from Queensland and he claimed to have ridden in every rodeo across the Top End, but Texas told her quietly that his old man was some mine engineer from Mt Isa and this was only his second mustering season. When they worked in the yards Tommy always insisted on riding the micky bulls that had just been cut out of the crush, and when she told him she thought he had an unfair advantage over the injured animals, he responded by slinging calves’ testicles at her. He was fair and freckled and long in the arms and legs but he wasn’t much taller than her. He copied the way the others talked, words running together and particular inflections. He also said fucking cunt a lot. She urged the little filly to follow the cattle down towards the river. The cattle had caught the smell of water and were

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starting to trot. Men were riding out on the wings of the mob. She stuck to the tail end. It was safer there and all she had to do was keep the stragglers from falling behind, urging on the young calves, the bony-hipped cows and those blind in one eye or with cancer. She and Tommy had ridden out that morning behind a small mob of coachers, the quiet cattle that would hopefully make the wilder ones easier to handle, while the more experienced stockmen had ridden off in different directions to hunt out more cattle. Texas apparently knew where to find them. He’d mustered this country before. The animals followed a fence line and Tommy rode the flank to stop them breaking away into the bush. Parrots chattered and squabbled and a flock would suddenly leave the branches of one tree to settle again in another. Little coloured birds ran across the ground, eventually taking off and flying in sharp formation to land again on the track further ahead. As the sun rose higher, it became warmer and the noise of the birds subsided except for the persistent call of a distant dove, although no matter which way Laura turned her head, she couldn’t seem to work out where it was coming from. The grass was dry and sparse and the sand between the bushy shrubs was splattered with old manure and ridged and cratered with the cloven feet of cattle. Eventually the country opened out, lumpy with grass, and they left the fence behind them. The cattle spread apart, occasionally stopping to graze, and she let her horse have its head and it walked backwards and forwards behind the mob, turning without any urging. Dust swirled above the backs of the animals, and

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through the haze in the distance was a line of hills. Perhaps the homestead was on the other side; she thought of Susannah and John and decided that she was lucky to be with Texas. She wondered why Susannah stayed with John and then she remembered sitting with Susannah on the edge of the veranda, watching the children play. It was during one of her friendlier moments. ‘You know that song, Stand by Your Man?’ Susannah had said, her eyes half closed to the sun. ‘It always reminds me of my mother. ‘She had this thing about women leaving their men. One time we were in the café in the main street of town and there was this woman, Nola, who played golf with Mum. She’d taken off with the men’s captain, leaving her husband behind. Mum says, “Don’t look now but it’s that woman.” I said to her, “How do you know what her life was like? He could’ve treated her really badly.” She said, “That’s no excuse; you’ve got to make an effort. Women these days, they only think of themselves. They don’t think how their actions might affect those around them.’’ ‘She died, my mother. A bit over three years ago. She was fifty-nine.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ said Laura. ‘My mother wasn’t a romantic.’ A cow and a calf and about five other animals trotted into the mob. Laura looked behind but there was no sign of the stockmen. Gradually more cattle joined them and then Jimmy appeared and so did Peter and then eventually the others, bringing with them a big piker bull with horns that

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curled menacingly into a fine point. Its head swung from side to side, watching every horse and its rider, and her horse stepped nervously, sensing the tension. As the mob moved forward, it stood still, and then it seemed to settle on Tommy, flicking dust with its front leg, jogging towards him. Tommy spurred his horse into a canter and swung around wide of the beast and the bull galloped off in the direction it came. Gary chased it but returned to the mob about ten minutes later. Gary was from Broome and it was the first time he’d worked in the east Kimberley. His wife had come over to be with her family. Laura had had trouble shoeing one of her horses and he’d helped her. That’s when he told her his wife was Peter’s sister. Laura was glad he hadn’t been able to turn the bull back in to the mob. It could be terrifying watching and waiting to see what it would do next. There had been other times when either Jimmy or Texas galloped after the animal. One of them would leap from his horse, holding the bull’s tail, and when it turned to spear him with its horns, the man tugged on its tail until it toppled over and he quickly leapt to secure it with hobble straps, tying the front leg to the back. Using the small saw attached to his saddle, he’d hack off its horns. The battered creature was carefully released in the hope he’d be subdued by the pain and the presence of the mob, but sometimes the animal, blood draining black on each side of its head, trotted away from the other cattle, eyeing them all, and the men’s horses would sidestep and bolt. Then they allowed it to retreat to the cover of the bush, telling each other they’d catch it the next time they mustered.

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Maxwell steered his horse alongside hers. ‘We water the cattle before dinner camp.’ He returned to the corner of the mob to her left; Tommy was on her right. The others had disappeared into the trees. Texas would be up the front leading them all. The horse quickened beneath her. Her singlet was sticking to her skin and she looked forward to crossing into the shade of the river trees and the cool grassy banks where there was water that wasn’t a mirage. Cattle bellowed, tripping over clumps of grass and splashing through mud, and corellas left the treetops in a screeching white cloud. The banks were irregular and steep and in parts the grass was like lawn. Sometimes the bank fell away into a sandy cliff where the force of rushing water had carved its path during the wet and the roots of the paperbarks were violently exposed. She steadied her horse which had grown excited by the commotion, pulling up beneath a wide-girthed tree. She knew now to wait, to hang back a bit, to watch. They weren’t far from the junction, the place where the two rivers met, which was where they’d camp tonight, after they’d yarded the cattle. The animals started to move up the sides of the far bank. She steered her horse forward and down into the water. It panicked a little in the soft mud and leapt across, almost landing on the back of one of the cattle and nearly unseating her in the process. Her horse took a long drink before it followed the last of them out onto the flat. The men were about five hundred metres away holding the mob, keeping them moving in on themselves, riding alongside the one that ventured out, steering it carefully back towards the others. They would have been much harder to hold

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earlier in the day, but after walking all morning they’d settled. Just to the right of the mob was the stock-camp Toyota which Cookie had driven to meet them. There was a thin ribbon of smoke beside it. The billy would be on. It had been hours since she’d drunk at a small stream that hadn’t been messed up by cattle. Texas rode towards her on a dun-coloured gelding. ‘You want to have first shift?’ ‘What are you doing?’ ‘I’ll wait for the other fellas.’ ‘I’ll wait.’ He nodded and his horse moved sideways and their legs brushed together. His horse, responsive to its rider’s touch, turned neatly away. Texas steered it towards the men, pausing to talk to each of them, and she forgot she was thirsty and found her energy renewed. She watched her section of the mob and every now and then she stepped forward to signal to the animal with its head turned towards her that it wasn’t to try to get past her. Usually if one made the dash then others would follow. When she could see their tails she could relax, but when one of them eyed her beneath their horns, she felt the thick heat of adrenalin. Their hides were mostly blood red but there were others with splashes of white, and around their eyes was a pale-coloured ring which made them seem more threatening than perhaps they were. They were quite different from the small silky-skinned brahmans in the paddock near the homestead. Tommy hoped that one of them would break away so he could chase them fast across the flat and wheel them back into the mob. She didn’t think she was courageous enough to spur

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her horse into a flat gallop, pressing hard for it to catch up to the animal when often the big old wily bulls wouldn’t turn anyway. The men had plenty of stories around the campfire each night of things gone wrong, of guts hanging out of their horses’ stomachs, stitching them up with whatever they could find at the time. The cattle seemed to settle and she rested her horse beneath a red-flowering tree that offered a little shade and she thought of water and remembered the duck pond in the park at the end of the street in Mill Hill and the terrapins that colonised it and how they would climb out and sun themselves in rows on the broken branches that had fallen into the water. Laura led her horse towards the vehicle, walking awkwardly, the inside of her jean legs stiff from sweat. The sun had begun to drop in the sky. The wind held its breath and the birds were silent, even the peaceful dove. Distant hills shimmered blue. Leaves on the nearby trees hung sparely and the shade was sparse. She dropped the reins around the metal bar on the front of the vehicle and passed beneath a tree. She took off her hat and the movement of air cooled her damp forehead. Cookie had placed a grill over white-hot coals and rib bones roasted and sizzled, the fat occasionally catching. The men who hadn’t eaten yet were dismounting, their positions surrounding the mob taken by the others who had. They gathered in the shade away from the smoke and sat in the dirt with quart pots of tea and a rib bone each. Texas was beside her. He drew his knees up towards him and rested his elbows, holding the rib bone in both hands. The meat was charred and the fat melted. And

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although her face and hands were covered in grease, and bits stayed between her teeth, the meat was delicious. When they finished, the bones were thrown in the dirt behind them. ‘How’s that horse you got?’ Texas asked. ‘She seems pretty smart. Although when I started she jumped around a bit.’ He chuckled. ‘Yeah I saw you,’ he said. ‘Your face, it was like this, eh?’ He pulled an expression showing wide eyes and a tight mouth. She laughed. Cookie who was sitting opposite them laughed too. ‘Young Tommy boy nearly got a horn up his ring,’ said Cookie. Texas snorted. ‘Yeah that got him moving.’ ‘What happened to Gary?’ she asked. ‘I think his horse stumbled or something. Reckoned he nearly come off near that old piker.’ The moment extended with the stillness of the afternoon. The sound of the cicadas seemed more subdued. Her horse, like the others, rested a leg, eyes blinking closed, long strong ears seemingly tuned out until a match scratched the box and they flicked forward or twitched to unsettle a fly. Bridles jingled with the occasional movement. There was no other sound. She leant against the tree and around her men lay on their backs in the dirt, faces covered by hats, and the normal boundaries of time seemed to vanish. She wondered sometimes at the value of this rest in the middle of the day. It made it so much harder to swing back

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up into the saddle, but once she was back there she forgot the stiffness, the feeling of grubbiness. She held the reins lightly in her hands, and her body fitted into the curve of the animal. Looking through the ears of the horse, she thought of Samson; she had sold her old horse to a girl from Cambridge. His stable would now be empty, or perhaps there was someone like her living in north London renting it, catching the 221 bus along the A1 to Frith Manor. They would buy their feed from the guy in the cowboy gear who drove a battered blue lorry that delivered on Tuesdays and take their horse over the cavaletti jumps in the nearby field or borrow a horse float for the drive to Arkley where there were areas of forest and undulating farmland. It was only at Arkley that the noise of traffic became a ceaseless murmur and she could dream of distances in Australia. Cattle spread in the direction they were heading and the men returned to their positions. Tommy walked his horse beside her. They were at the back of the mob. She could only just make out through the dust the tall straight figure of Texas, leading the cattle. ‘How far to the yards?’ Tommy shrugged and spat over the side of his horse’s head. ‘Maybe three, four mile.’ The country was changing. Becoming bushier. ‘They reckon there are wild pigs around here,’ he continued. She lightly touched the rein of her horse and it moved towards a steer that stood behind a shrub. It trotted forwards and disappeared into the mob. Tails flicked from side to side. And occasionally a micky bull clambered onto a cow.

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‘You ever seen one?’ ‘What?’ she asked. ‘A pig, wild one.’ ‘What do they look like?’ ‘They’re real mean eh? They got tusks on them like this.’ He made an elaborate gesture with his finger. ‘They chase you,’ he added.

IV Laura decided that when the men told their stories around the fire at night it was to reassure themselves that they’d survived. They were talking about the breakaway cattle, the few that had got through the line of horses and riders when they were attempting to push them into the yards. A large bullock had leapt between her and Jimmy, the tip of its horn grazing her shoulder. ‘Eh aunty, what happened? That big bullock want to jump on you?’ said Jimmy, a grin on his face. ‘She too busy worrying about the fly in her ear,’ said Texas, sitting down in front of the fire. She had thought she was going to go mad. That it would be in there forever, burrowing into the flesh of her ear, laying maggot eggs. After most of the cattle had been secured in the yards, Texas had taken her horse and told her to go to Cookie, to where he was setting up camp under the trees on the

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riverbank, and get him to pour some water into her ear. She looked across the fire at Tommy who was talking about the steer he’d gone after. And the others were teasing him about the one he’d lost. But she hadn’t told them her story. She was still replaying it in her mind. After the fly was washed out she lifted their gear from the back of the vehicle and found a flat area of ground that appeared to be clear of ant nests. When she’d opened her pack and laid out her clothes, she’d realised they were all dirty and the singlet she was wearing was wet and streaked with dust. The sun was just above the treetops. There was perhaps an hour or more left of light. The river would be behind her. She collected her clothes and placed them in the pack and carried them down through the trees. But the riverbed was dry. A vast expanse of sand lay between the bank on which she stood and the other side. It was coarse yellow sand pitted with the tracks of animals. The birds had begun their late afternoon chorus, pairs of birds coming in to roost for the night. Two rivers had come together to form this? She couldn’t believe it. And not far from there was where apparently it drained into the big man-made dam. It was supposed to be more than twenty times the size of Sydney Harbour, which she also found hard to believe, although she’d never seen either of them. This country seemed to be incapable of producing such vast amounts of water. She had witnessed weeks of dry blue sky and of dust that stuck to everything. She was tired of the oily feel of her jeans and of her legs always enclosed in hot heavy fabric. The river curved away to her right. There must be a waterhole

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somewhere along there. She would walk until she came to one. The sun disappeared behind the trees and they were outlined by sparkling light. A slip of liquid shone like metal in a gutter that ran close to the side of the bank, and although it didn’t reach all the way across, it would be enough. The first thing she did was take off her boots. The damp cool sand seeped between her toes and caressed her feet. She removed her jeans, her underwear, her singlet and stood in that soft evening air, seeing for the first time for weeks her reflection in the water, noticing the contrasting colour of her skin from where the sun reached her arms and where it was hidden by clothing. She took all the clothes out of her pack and pushed them into the shallows. She followed them in and lowered herself into cold water. Sitting, it reached her chest. She slowly moved the clothes around, not wanting to disturb, to muddy the water. If they were to stay another night, would Texas join her? They could lie in the water and it would be like a silken sheet slipping over their bodies. It was hard to imagine, though, Texas without any clothes. Every night they sat in the darkness on either side of their swag, pulling off their boots and everything else, before they met in the middle of the mattress, under the covers. Although sometimes she saw the shape of him, stretching tall in front of the dawn sky, when the soft bellies of cloud were faintly pink. Just as she was about to get up, she noticed the movement of animals coming down the far bank. They were heading towards the waterhole. Too small for cattle. Oh my god, it was

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a wild sow and its piglets. She sank lower into the water, to be still, to not move, to not make a ripple. Trying to quieten the sound of her heart knocking in her ears. The piglets squealed and bumped into each other while their mother drank. And then there were dogs at the edge. Pale-coloured animals that must have been dingoes. She hadn’t even noticed them appear. And across to the far end of the waterhole, a distance of about two hundred metres, a large horned animal dropped its head to drink. She must have seen one before, in a picture or at the zoo, for she recognised it was a buffalo. The water enveloped her and, strangely, the animals took no notice of each other. Her breathing eased a little. She didn’t know how long it was that she felt like she didn’t exist and the pigs and the dogs and the buffalo went about their usual activity. Eventually they straggled off and she was able to step out of the water, noticing the ridges of sodden skin on her hands and feet. She dried and dressed in her only piece of clean clothing, a blue and yellow sarong that her parents had bought one year from a beach stall in Le Lavandou. She carried the wet clothes the kilometre or so back to camp, walking through deep sand, unable to distinguish her tracks from those made by animals. Her clothes now hung from a rope borrowed from Cookie which was strung between two trees. Cookie looked up from his pots and said she could have done his washing while she was at it. The men rested in front of the fire with mugs of tea and cigarettes. She had lived with the same image for weeks now, but she saw it as though for the first time: the shape of their hats, the outline of their bodies, light flickering over the lower

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half of their faces, arranged in a semicircle, and she realised the stories they told, although they changed every night, gave meaning to their existence. She heard the crackle of the bush behind her and thought of things she couldn’t see. Listening to their talk, she decided she wouldn’t tell them what happened at the waterhole. She didn’t want them to think of her naked. There was no gas light since their camp was only temporary, and when the fire died, the men left for their swags. She knew they would keep moving camp until they reached the permanent yards that had a loading ramp for the truck. She climbed into the swag beside Texas and he held out his arm for her to come closer.

V Laura had a sore on her hand that wouldn’t heal. Texas told her it was barcoo rot. ‘You need to eat more onions,’ he said. They were in the round yard of the cattle yards. Although it wasn’t actually round, more like a hexagon, gates opened out from it into pens that kept the cows and the steers apart, and the calves from their mothers. As well as controlling one of the gates, she was responsible for recording the numbers of cattle as they passed through. Texas worked the main gate that led into it and announced where the animals were to go. She found herself watching and it was like the first time she wanted him,

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wonder and desire sharpening the light and the shape of everything. He didn’t seem to notice but then he looked up. ‘You got your eye on them cattle?’ he said with a sideways smile. Some of the men had exchanged their William boots, as they called them, for sneakers so they didn’t slip. They were armed with pieces of poly pipe and they moved in and out of the cattle, occasionally leaping up onto the railings when a cow or a bull went after them. One time a bony old cow had chased her in the forcing yard. Laura didn’t have any sneakers and her boots slipped; she fell back and the cow was underneath and it sent her flying over the top of the yard. Luckily it was a cow without horns and the only injuries were to her pride and to her coccyx. Maxwell and Gary were sitting on the opposite rail and she looked up and caught them grinning wildly, slapping their thighs in amusement. Since then she’d made sure she had a job away from the action. Scruffing calves was different. She helped by holding them down after they were chased and toppled by one of the men. It was hard work and the calves were stronger than they looked. Often it took two people to force the animal over and then its ear was marked and it was branded, and if it was a male its ball bag was cut and two bluish testicles squeezed from the opening. The calves often made a noise that made her think they were choking and when they were released they stood unsteadily beside the fence that separated them from their mothers. The smell of burning hair became as thick as dust. The gate clanged shut and over the

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sounds of the cattle she heard a vehicle. She saw it pull up and she called out to Texas. ‘The boss is here.’ John walked over to the yards, leaning in between the railings to talk to Texas. He remained on the outside and never glanced in her direction. He had driven off by the time they broke for dinner camp. Jimmy was walking beside Texas. ‘What did the veranda boss want?’ ‘He reckon some of those cows need spaying.’ She was on the other side of Texas and he reached out for her ponytail, twirling it around with his hand. ‘That’d be your job eh?’ And his hand dropped to her wrist, and held it up. ‘Good small arm.’ When they returned to work that afternoon she realised he wasn’t joking. The branding fire was stoked and a metal bucket of water placed on to boil. There were instruments, the longhandled scissors and the needle and the knife, to be sterilised. Tar was heated and twine prepared for threading. She was grateful for her nursing experience. She wasn’t squeamish but she felt for the poor old cow that stepped gingerly through the gate when it was released, a splash of black tar sealing the stitched wound in the hollow of its flank. There were ten of them. ‘Will they survive?’ she asked when the last one joined the others. Texas shrugged. ‘Some maybe. See that one over there.’ He pointed through the gap in the railing to the yard where the steers and the bullocks were held, the cattle destined for the abattoirs. ‘That big old cow, she a meatworker cow, see how big and fat she is. That one spayed maybe two, three year ago.’

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Tommy poured water on the fire and it spat thickly and dust and smoke became steam. Then he leant against the railing beside her. ‘Wouldn’t mind a ready-made smoke,’ he said as he leant in to lick the rollie paper. ‘And a ready woman for that matter,’ he added, eyes glancing sideways. She looked at his profile, face filthy from the moisture of steam and the dirt and soot that adhered to it. His teeth were stained and in the corner of his eye was a globule of the black dust that also ringed his nostrils. ‘Too busy riding bulls at the rodeo, eh Tommy?’ Jimmy was sitting on the top rail. ‘No time for loving up.’ Peter’s laugh drowned out the others’. It was deep and his belly seemed to move with it. Texas picked up the branding iron and stood it against a post. ‘You smart fellas better get going with those cows. Take them back before dark eh?’ It took another day and a half to return the breeders and the young calves to their paddocks and to finish loading the meatworker cattle onto the truck. After dinner camp they packed up their gear and stacked it on the back of the Toyota. Maxwell was standing beside Laura. His whiskers were like white splinters against his skin. She remembered Peter telling her that when Maxwell was a young fella, he’d been speared in the thigh by the horn of a bull. That’s why he couldn’t move so fast any more. ‘Maxwell, why don’t you sit in the front?’ Shaking his head. ‘That place for you.’

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She hesitated by the car door. ‘Get in,’ said Texas who was driving. Cookie followed behind her. The others climbed on the back. She noticed Maxwell was the last to settle amongst all the swags. The heat from the engine was almost burning her leg and her other leg was pressed close to Texas and every time he changed gear, his arm crossed the top of her body and his wrist brushed the inside of her thigh. At times she thought she knew where they were but then they headed in a direction she didn’t expect. The windows on both sides of the vehicle were open and the air that blew in was hot like a hairdryer and sometimes it was mixed with tobacco smoke and ash flicked around the cabin. They were driving towards some ranges that were shaped like a line of purple plasticine, pinched at the top into thin edges. She remembered her niece’s second birthday at her parents’ house in Mill Hill. She had given the little girl plasticine but her sister had said her daughter wasn’t old enough. She’d probably eat it. And they’d all laughed at Laura who didn’t know what to give a two-year-old child. But it had distracted her family from trying to talk her out of going to Australia. Sometimes she imagined what it might be like to live in the same street as her sister. Driving from her parents’ house to the end of the road and onto the busy high street, then around the roundabout they called a circus and onto the motorway that lifted you above street level, with all the other cars heading in the same direction. Half an hour later, taking one of the many exits onto a slip-road that led into a row of ugly postwar houses, owned by the local council but with an

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option for working couples to buy. And her car would be parked in the front of the garage that was painted blue, the coloured door the only thing that distinguished it from the others in the street. And there would be holidays in the sun once a year perhaps, to Marbella or Majorca. The landscape through the dirty windscreen was mostly flat with the occasional tree, feathery shrubs and grass that grew thinly. Sometimes there were red rocks in between. The vehicle followed a two-wheel track for what seemed like hours and then it turned onto a freshly graded road and she didn’t realise she’d been resisting with her body the bumps in the road until there were none. ‘Who’s done this?’ Cookie looked across at Texas. ‘He’s got some grader driver putting in new roads round the place.’ ‘What for?’ ‘He reckons he’s putting in more bores, more fences. Fencing them brahmas in.’ She hadn’t asked where they would be spending the night. She had developed an ability to think no further than the moment. There was no use planning ahead when she relied on others to find the way or drive her somewhere. She was pleasantly surprised when the track turned and she recognised the roof tucked beneath the hill. They had come to the place where the Swedish boys had stayed. Texas said there would be hot water to wash in. They just had to light the fire for the donkey. There was no sign of Hans and Sven, not that she expected to see them. She knew they’d be long gone, probably

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in Perth by now. But there was another vehicle there. A ute with a fuel drum on the back. ‘Looks like the grader driver’s camped up here as well,’ said Texas as he switched off the engine. She hadn’t noticed before but the other wing of the homestead had doors facing out to the yard and behind each one was a small room with a bed and sometimes a cupboard. It was clear they hadn’t been used for some time; one of them had the grader driver’s things but the others were full of gravelly dirt and dust and cobwebs. Texas came up behind her carrying the swag. ‘What you doing?’ he asked. ‘Look like you waiting for something to come out and grab you.’ He squeezed her waist. ‘Which one do you think?’ ‘That one up the end.’ She found a broom in the kitchen and swept the floor clean and took out the mattress and left it on the grass outside while Texas attended to the donkey, which was apparently the hotwater system. Despite its rather tangled mess of rusted pipes and the lever that turned the water on, the donkey worked wonderfully and she savoured every moment, shampooing her hair and scrubbing the dirt from her body. By early evening everyone had showered and there were clothes hanging from the line in the yard. ‘Getting ready for the rodeo,’ said Texas. ‘You didn’t tell me,’ she said. ‘Telling you now,’ he said cheerfully.

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She was sitting in the same place in the kitchen where she’d sat talking to Hans. It seemed so long ago. Cookie had cleaned it up and opened the shutters so there was more air; the fan swung lazily in the middle of the room, shifting the smell of cooking stew. ‘Looking forward to the rodeo, Cookie?’ ‘Dunno, never been to one. Looking forward to a beer.’ ‘Oh, I thought you’d done this for years.’ ‘My first season.’ ‘Would you do it again?’ ‘Yeah maybe.’ He looked up from the pot on the stove. ‘Depends on the blokes you work with. This mob been pretty good. I used to cook for . . . Well let’s just say . . . most of them were bastards. Besides this job it’s sort of interesting too. Get to see a bit of the country. You know. What about you?’ ‘Oh,’ she began but then realised she didn’t have an answer. She hadn’t thought of there being an end. But it didn’t matter because Texas walked in, wearing a clean shirt and jeans. His hair was still wet. He sat down beside her. ‘Here, move over.’ She moved along a bit but not too far, suddenly warm and receptive, anticipating the touch of his arm on her skin. She wondered if it was the same for him. The flywire door swung open again and their eyes were drawn to a man in a singlet and shorts, with tattoos the same shade of blue as his clothing covering both arms. He had a long ginger beard that grew past the neckline of his top. ‘Goodonyer,’ he nodded and walked across to the sink.

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He turned on the tap and rinsed a mug of water before filling it up and bringing it to his mouth. He turned to face them, leaning against the bench. ‘So youse having a bit of a spell here?’ ‘Yeah, going in for the rodeo tomorrow,’ said Texas. ‘Wouldn’t mind doing the same. Got to get this road finished by the end of next week. Bloody slow going mate. All that breakaway country, terrible stuff.’ He’d been looking at Texas but he directed the last part of his conversation towards her. She wasn’t sure where to look. Texas got up from the table and poured himself some tea. ‘You stay here much?’ the grader driver asked. Before anyone could answer he continued. ‘There’s something funny going on. You know every time I get back in here. It’s always the same thing. There’s a bloody bullet shell left on my swag. Like someone’s having a joke. But as far as I can tell there ain’t no one around.’ She looked over at Texas. His eyes were on his tea as he returned to his seat. ‘Dunno mate,’ said Cookie. ‘We just got here.’ The grader driver’s name was Plug and he joined them all for some of Cookie’s stew. It seemed like he’d done everything, been everywhere across the top half of Australia. She was sick of the white neon light. When Plug glanced at her, which was every now and then, she thought his eyes looked strange, like the eyes of a bull that was cornered, especially after he returned from a quick trip outside which he did too many times for her to think he was just going to the toilet. She wanted to be alone

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with Texas. Maxwell and Gary were the first to leave. Tommy and Peter smoked and drank their tea. Jimmy sat quietly and Cookie had his feet up on a chair. She took her plate across to the sink, washing and drying it, then turned around, hoping to catch Texas’s eyes, but he was talking about bull catching. The other man, Plug, was watching instead. She went to Texas’s side and placed her hand on his shoulder and murmured that she was going to bed. The bedroom was lit by a single bulb in the middle of the ceiling. She checked the corners of the room and peered inside the broken door of the chipboard wardrobe. She unrolled their swag on the floor, thinking the bed was too small for both of them, and decided anyway that she preferred the thin mattress they had been using. She turned off the switch beside the door and on the other side was a small window with louvres through which she could see the darkness that was punctured by light, which produced night shadows inside the room. She slipped between the sheets, her body like silk, almost unrecognisably clean. The generator spluttered and died. There was the sound of boots scratching the concrete outside the door and the shape of a head filled the window and then stayed there. She was about to call out and then something stopped her. She became very still, her arms tight beside her, feeling vulnerable, so far down. And then the shape moved away. Texas was outside the door and his boots clunked against it as he pulled them off. The door opened and closed behind him. ‘Someone was out there,’ she said.

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‘Yeah?’ He was pulling off his jeans and his shirt. They fell to the floor. He sat down on the edge of the swag. ‘I turn the plant off.’ ‘It was that man. I don’t like him.’ ‘Ah don’t worry about him. He’s a bit windy from being out here too long. Or maybe he drinking too much metho. He seeing things, you know. No bullet in his swag.’ He was beside her and they shared the same pillow, the lean length of him touching her. ‘What’s this?’ She laughed and turned towards him. Later he sat up and fumbled for his clothing, finding the tobacco tin. When he’d rolled a smoke he struck a match, and the orange flare showed the shape of his mouth, his nose and the power of his arms. He lay back. ‘What do you mean, he drinks metho?’ ‘Some fellas get a taste for it, you know. Methylated spirits. Mix it sometimes with orange juice. Not good though. Make you go crazy.’ ‘Have you ever drunk it?’ ‘Maybe one or two times. When there’s no grog left.’ She took the cigarette from between his fingers and drew back on it, letting the smoke seep out and into the shaft of light from the window which crossed their bodies. They were uncovered and the light was a rectangular square and where it touched, their skin glowed. ‘Is Texas your real name?’

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‘It’s one of them.’ ‘What are the others?’ ‘The name my father give me when I was born and my skin name in my mother’s language.’ ‘Where do they live?’ She was suddenly curious and to soften the directness of her question, she turned sideways and traced a pattern on his chest with her finger, feeling the ridge of muscle beneath the skin. ‘My mother, she got a place in town and they’re going to build a house for her and my stepfather. My sister live there too. Her husband, he got a caravan out of town and sometimes she live there. My other sister’s with another family. Somewhere in Queensland.’ ‘You don’t know where?’ ‘They never told my mother. She went with some people who wanted her.’ ‘What about your father?’ ‘That old fella, he was a drover and then a horse landed on his leg and he was no good. Died in hospital. When I was at mission school. He gone when I got back.’ She thought about her own family. Her mother and father had met at college and were married by the time they finished. They’d always worked as teachers and they were home most afternoons after school. She couldn’t remember a time in her childhood when they weren’t there. They would be missing her. And she wondered what her parents would think if they could see her now.

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VI The rodeo ground was on a flat beside a creek bed. Trucks were pulled up on the far side of some old timber yards and in front of them was a large ring of portable yard. Dust lay above it like brown smoke but it was too far away for them to see any animals. Station vehicles were arriving and people were setting up camp in groups. Texas drove past them and crossed the sandy creek to the other side where there were concrete shelters in which people seemed to live and then to the highway. They drove a mile or so along the bitumen road and turned off into a roadhouse. ‘Where we going to camp?’ asked Cookie when they pulled up in front of it. The bluish-grey concrete between the fuel bowsers seemed to ripple in the heat. ‘Back at the ground. Just get some beer and some tucker here.’ The roadhouse door swung shut behind Laura. She felt disconnected from the garishness of packaged food, bags of Burger Rings and crisps hanging from hooks, and packets of coloured snakes and other sweets. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted any of it. The others ordered and waited at the counter while the shop owner brought out the cartons of beer. ‘You all right, love?’ said the owner. ‘Yes I’m fine. I’m with them.’ She decided on a pie and sauce. Everything was booked up to the station account.

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‘They take it out of your wages when they get the account,’ said Cookie as he climbed back into the vehicle beside her. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Ain’t nothing for free round here,’ he continued. The pie was too hot to hold and she put it up on the dashboard where it would probably get even hotter. Texas got in beside her. He had three cans in his hand and he handed her and Cookie one each and asked her to open his while he started the vehicle. The beer was warm. ‘Like this where you come from eh? Kimberley cool, beautiful,’ said Cookie. ‘There’s cold beer at the rodeo bar,’ said Texas and then took a long drink. They returned to the rodeo ground and it seemed that the area was filling up quickly with people and vehicles. Texas left the track to drive alongside the creek, stopping beside a gnarly old coolibah tree that was set back a little from the trees on the bank. They were away from the action but at least there was some solid shade. They sat on their swags and ate and drank. The beer was starting to go to her head. Peter, Gary and Maxwell stood up together. One of them picked up a carton of beer and they all headed towards the trees, the opposite direction to the rodeo. ‘They got family across the creek,’ said Texas. The hot easterly wind dropped and country and western music drifted across the flat along with the muffled sounds of someone talking into a loudspeaker. Every now and then a horn

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would sound. Tommy left, saying he was going to enter the bull ride. Cookie followed and then Jimmy. ‘C’mon then. Come and have a look eh?’ Texas placed his arm heavily across her shoulders. They walked awkwardly across the parched colourless grass, her footsteps not quite matching his and him leaning on her a little too much, carrying what was left of the carton under his other arm. The rodeo ring was surrounded by people, some peering through the railings, others on the top rail like rows of birds, clutching cans of beer. Brown hats, grey hats. She noticed an area further back, beneath a small stand of trees, where women sat on eskies around a fold-up table and small children were playing in the dirt. There was a horse being saddled behind the rails on the far side of the ring. She recognised the words of a song playing. It was an Australian song: ‘I love to have a beer with Duncan’. A voice over the loudspeaker interrupted the chorus, announcing the name of the next rider for the saddle bronc. Metal clanged and the gate was released and a grey horse leapt sideways and the rider with it, his hat knocked from his head, arm raised in the air as he held on with the other, body thrusting forwards with the movement of the horse. From the comments around her, she learnt that the horse wasn’t performing, not fighting hard enough to rid the rider from its back. ‘See that strap under the tail? That’s the tickler. Make him buck,’ said Texas. He opened another can. She drained hers and took the one he was offering.

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‘Put your bloody hooks in,’ yelled someone to her right. Another horse came out. The heat was leaching from her the energy she needed to stand. Sitting in the dirt, she could see between the rails but the angle was different. Texas’s jeans were dusty and the toes of his boots looked as though they’d been dipped in rust-coloured powder. The seat of her jeans would look the same. Waves of horses and riders rose and fell. Horses contorting, springing and twisting, the rider, like a rubber cowboy, flung in every direction and often into the dirt. ‘Kicked in the shoulder,’ said the voice over the loudspeaker. ‘And he’s up. He’s got the rodeo limp.’ Texas was leaning with his back to the rails, talking to some men in front of him. They were drinking beer. The empty carton lay in the middle of them. She pulled herself up and stood beside him. The three men glanced at her and then at Texas. ‘Going to get more grog,’ he said, leaning in to kiss her but missing her mouth. She turned back towards the rodeo, holding the railing for support. She didn’t know how long it was that she stood there. The sun on her shoulders had lost its intensity and the event in the ring was now bareback riding. She wondered when it had started and why Texas wasn’t back. She turned away from the rodeo and walked towards the camp, staring into the glare of the sun, pulling her hat down to avoid it, thirsty and stiff, stepping carefully over the grass, avoiding the sticks that might trip her up. Tommy was sitting on his swag. Cookie was lying asleep in the dirt. Tommy looked up at her and grinned. A carton of beer was at his feet. He offered her one and she took

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it, sitting down on the swag beside the vehicle. It was cool in the shade of the leaves and light danced around the edges as a gentle breeze moved the branches about. ‘Cookie choked down pretty quick eh,’ said Tommy. He was sitting on the edge of a rolled swag, elbows resting on his knees. ‘You seen Texas?’ she asked. He shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ He took a drink from his can. ‘Might’ve been him in a car. A brown car, with a few other fellas and a nanny-goat mob.’ She frowned. Dribble was leaking out the side of Cookie’s mouth and little flies dipped in and out. ‘Maybe go fifty-fifty. With you, eh.’ ‘What?’ she asked. Tommy’s light-coloured shirt was streaked with sweat and it hung loosely from his skinny frame. For the first time she noticed a leather thong around his neck, fastened with the small head of a silver longhorn bull. ‘What?’ she asked again, something she didn’t want to know struggling to take shape in her head. ‘Yeah well. How about it? He’s not here, is he? Probably gone off with some other woman. Don’t have to tell him.’ His lower lip was wet with beer. She flung back at him the words he used so often, and in that moment it felt good to use them. They echoed in her head as she left, clasping the beer, holding it out in front so that she wouldn’t spill it. It was hard to determine the lie of the land when the light was fading and grass grew in such unpredictable shapes, but somehow she

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negotiated her way towards the rodeo bar which was now lit by a row of coloured light bulbs. The bar itself was surrounded by hessian so that she couldn’t see clearly, only the shapes of people inside. There was a small opening and men looked up from their drinks, she couldn’t see any women, and the men resembled Tommy, so she turned and walked out again. She drained the can in her hand and threw it in the dirt, trying to look purposeful and brave for the benefit of the people she passed. She returned to the Toyota. A star had appeared between the fork in the branches. There was someone in the dirt beside the vehicle. She moved quietly towards it and was relieved that it was Cookie, still sleeping, and that Tommy seemed to have gone. Where was Texas? How could he leave her like this? The darkness crowded around and forced itself on her and she was frightened. How he could love her, claim that she was his wife, and then leave her? She thought of other men, other boyfriends, and how she always knew when it was over. There was always some sign. But with Texas there had been nothing, no sign at all. If only she had her bus pass, her air ticket, her passport, but they were in the cupboard back at the station. She could walk out across the creek and to the highway where the roadhouse was, where the bus would pull in. She’d never run away from anything before, but she’d never felt like she didn’t have a choice before either. She must think of something, work out a plan. Her mind struggled to form an idea. All she could think of was lying down. She took her swag off the back of the Toyota. On her hands and knees, she pushed it under the vehicle and rolled it out behind the tyre. Hopefully they wouldn’t find

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her here. She must have slept because she didn’t hear anyone return; she woke when the darkness started to lighten behind her eyes and the smell of a campfire seeped into her consciousness. Cookie was squatting over thin wisps of smoke, snapping twigs in half and arranging them carefully over fine licks of flame. She moved out from under the vehicle. He looked up. ‘What were you doing under there?’ he asked. He had a smudge of charcoal on his face, his lips were dry and his eyes squinted as though the light was too bright. She smiled a little sheepishly and when she stood up, her head ached. She realised she hadn’t even taken off her boots before she went to sleep. ‘Where’s Tommy?’ Cookie flicked his head to his left towards a canvas cocoon about twenty metres away from the vehicle. ‘Looks like he’s got company,’ he said. ‘Good,’ she murmured as she moved towards the fire. ‘What’s that?’ ‘Oh nothing,’ she said. He reached into the back of the Toyota for the billy and filled it with water from a twenty-litre container that was lying at the end of the tray and nestled it into the small scattering of coals. ‘Where’s Texas got to?’ asked Cookie. ‘That’s what I’d like to know.’ ‘Ah don’t worry. He’s probably just gone for a wander. You know. Catching up with a few people.’ The water started to boil. Cookie threw a handful of tea into it.

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‘Grab a couple of mugs there in the box.’ They sat with their tea and Laura noticed around her the slow movement of people. Where there were vehicles, men leant against them or walked between them, talking in pairs or in threes, and sometimes there was a woman, kneeling, helping a child to put on its boots. The soft hazy light blanketed the flat and the air was crisp but she knew it wouldn’t last. A car being driven noisily from a distance became louder, its engine sounding as though it had something missing. It emerged from between the trees by the creek and lurched over the lumps in the track, swinging around towards them. It was a brown station wagon full of people and its tail end sunk low over its wheels and dust caught up with it when it stopped near their Toyota. Doors opened wide and Texas stepped out on the passenger side, and men and women and children spilled from the openings. His hand went up to his hat, to steady it, and he walked in a careful, measured way. She stared into the fire. His hand reached for her shoulder and she shrugged it off. ‘My woman Laura.’ He was turning back towards the group that followed and they found places around her and she looked up and they smiled. The only one she recognised was Jimmy. ‘This one here,’ said Texas, ‘he’s my cousin brother and this here, uncle and aunty and them two, they’re my kids.’ ‘What? You got kids?’ She turned to him. He sat in the dirt beside her and draped his arm across her shoulders. She saw then that his other hand held a large bottle of rum.

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‘You didn’t tell me you had kids.’ She spoke softly now, but urgently, embarrassed that there were people watching. ‘What about their mother?’ she whispered. ‘Where is she?’ Glancing quickly up at the woman, Texas’s aunty, with the wide open face and hair that wisped gently around it. She stared back impassively. ‘That wife with another fella.’ Texas held the bottle up by its neck. ‘Cookie, you want some rum eh?’ Tommy emerged from the direction of his swag with a woman who was barefoot, wearing a shapeless floral dress. She sat in the dirt beside Laura, giggling, glancing around shyly. Her name was Mary. She was Peter’s cousin. Laura watched rum being poured into pannikins. They were passed around and since there weren’t enough pannikins for everyone, they used empty beer cans cut in half to make cups. It was overproof rum and it brought the heat to her cheeks. And when that bottle was finished there was more in the car. A dry wind started and it rolled the leaves around in the dirt.

VII Together they lay on their swag in the shade of the creek. If she lifted her head she could see over the shallow ridge of the bank to their vehicle which seemed to have been deserted. Texas stirred. Since they’d been asleep, the shade had extended across the sand, from one side of the creek to the other. The tops of

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the trees wavered in the breeze but it was still where they were lying. Occasionally she heard women’s voices, high-pitched, maybe shouting. They came from the other side, away from the rodeo ground. His hand reached for her leg and he rubbed it along her jeans. She smiled and placed her hand on his. He turned, facing her. ‘Pretty lucky, eh.’ He raised his head, supporting it with his palm, lying sideways. She was on her back and his face filled her vision, and the eyes that looked into hers were dark and the whites were coloured with blood. ‘Last night,’ she said, ‘Tommy wanted me to go with him.’ ‘Did he?’ He seemed amused. ‘What did he say?’ ‘First of all he said he wanted to go fifty-fifty or something like that, and then . . .’ Texas laughed. ‘Those words, old fellas used to say them. Maybe they want something you know, like smoke, grog, and the old fella, he say, here, you have my wife for a bit, we share.’ ‘Really. No woman should put up with that,’ she said. Not knowing whether to believe him, feeling disappointed that he wasn’t angrier with Tommy. ‘That woman, she still with her husband.’ She sat up and the movement created spots before her eyes. The fuzziness caused by the rum hadn’t left her and it created a comfortable barrier between her old self and the new. Sitting, he crossed his legs. ‘I got you this thing in town.’ He brought his hand up to his chest pocket. ‘Here, look.’ He held up a gold necklace. ‘Show

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him to Tommy.’ Hanging from the chain was a heart-shaped pendant. He laughed quietly and dropped it into her palm. She threaded it through her fingers. Texas looked past her. ‘There was this outlaw fella, Major, one time, long, long time ago, he had a cave in those hills over that way. That fella, he took all the women from around here. There was this big fight, big shoot-out, and one woman, she was shot in the bub, she a relation to my mother. They shot him too. Lots of fellas killed. That woman, she was meant for some other fella, you know, in the tribal way, but Major come and took her. He was from Northern Territory. This fella Kelly brought him over. ‘See all that business, it broke up the tribal way. Aboriginal people they got to marry that person with the right skin, like eagle skin or snake.’ ‘What do you think?’ she asked, fastening the chain around her neck, wanting him to look at her. And when he did, his eyes seemed distant, as though he was still thinking of something else. She remembered what he’d been saying. ‘You were talking about what it was like in the past,’ she said, wanting him to continue, feeling guilty she’d interrupted him. But it seemed he’d finished. Perhaps he was trying to tell her something but now the moment had moved on and she wasn’t sure of the right question to ask and she didn’t see the connection between him and the people he was talking about. He was looking at the pendant and he smiled as he fingered it against her chest. ‘You’re my woman,’ he said.

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For the heir to triumph the father must fall For the heir to triumph the father must fall

I Susannah kept the fan spinning fast above her head while she prepared the meal. Clouds appeared that afternoon, towering sculptures of cumulus, but they never ventured further than the northern corner of the sky. The heat had changed. It was thicker and denser. She could hear the noise of unhappy cattle and, occasionally, men shouting. They had returned to clean up the home paddocks. The last load of cattle would leave tomorrow, marking the end of the season. When the shearing finished on the farm there was always a cut-out, her father providing beers for the shearers, and in later years when there were more New Zealand shearers, they often had a hangi as well. She wondered if John intended to do anything for them before he sent them off. And what would happen to Texas and Laura? 175

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She heated the oil in a pan on the stove and fried some onion. The couple had returned with the men last night. She hadn’t seen Laura yet. They appeared to be sleeping together in Laura’s quarters and eating across the creek in the camp kitchen. Last night John repeated what the grader driver had said. That Laura was begging for it. John saw his wife’s smile and she could tell it made him angry. Susannah was smiling because she knew that neither man could cope with the idea that Laura had chosen Texas. She was no longer available to them. Not that she probably ever was. Susannah couldn’t understand how men’s minds worked. She wondered what they thought of her, how she compared with Laura: the mother who kept the house, who had the keys to the cool room and the medical chest but not the means to escape. She corrected herself, she did have the means to leave; there were vehicles, bank accounts. It was just that she was unable to believe that she could be anybody else. There was the solid sound of boots stepping onto the veranda and a light tap at the door. Through the flywire she saw the shape of a man. She pushed it open and he stepped back, removing his hat. It was Texas. ‘Boss left his notebook up here.’ ‘Has he?’ Her face reddened. ‘I’ll have a look.’ Dark curls pushed out from under the flattened hair around his head. His shirt was a deep blue with sleeves rolled to below the elbow. She handed him the notebook and saw that his wrist was narrow and wondered why she was unable to look him in the face. She stepped outside after he left and looked into the

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fading light. There was something about being on the veranda that made her feel like she was on a stage. How many women had stood there before her? And did any of them feel that perhaps they’d been given the wrong role? Her eyes settled on something closer, a pale pink patterned gecko that steadily traversed the wall in search of insects brought in by the light. The gecko’s large protruding eyes reminded her of a mammal embryo. Its translucent fingers and toes spread out to stick to the wall. She remembered the documentary about a kangaroo joey and how its hairless pink body clung to the fur of its mother, its mouth wedged tightly over her large nipple, sucking relentlessly while she carried the creature until it grew to a size that altered her shape completely. She didn’t resent her children. Not really. And she couldn’t imagine being without them. Perhaps she just resented other mothers for not telling her what it would be like. She became aware of the fact that she was standing looking at the wall. Hastily, she stepped off the veranda. She looked at her image in the bathroom mirror; the reflective material was flaking off in patches and she couldn’t see all of herself. Laura’s return made her feel as though she’d never been anything other than a mother. Her thoughts were interrupted by the shrieks of her children. The boys drove boats into each other in the bath. When they were dried and dressed in their pyjamas she let them run ahead of her towards the kitchen. ‘There you are.’ Susannah turned around. Laura appeared in front of the bougainvillea having come from the direction of the laundry.

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‘I’ve been looking for you.’ Laura was smiling. ‘You really should carry your torch at night. In case of snakes.’ ‘I can see from the light of the laundry,’ said Laura. Susannah followed the children. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ she asked over her shoulder. She reached the kitchen door. ‘I was thinking of something a bit stronger.’ ‘Oh . . . there’s the men’s beer,’ said Susannah, facing her. She walked back and unlocked the cool room and handed Laura a can of beer. Perhaps Laura would like to have a drink with her, while she fed the children. ‘Can I have another one for Texas?’ Susannah paused. ‘I’m not going to drink them both,’ Laura added with a grin. She had changed. Her arms and her face were tanned by the sun and her skin was youthful enough for it to look natural and healthy. She seemed assured, more self-possessed. She looked as though she belonged. ‘The drinks come out of your wages,’ said Susannah, turning her back on her. Susannah was cross with herself for being disappointed. The woman was sleeping with an Aboriginal for christsake. The thought escaped before she could help it and it made her feel even guiltier, but the fact was she couldn’t imagine what Laura might see in him. She turned on the tap at the sink and looked through the louvres into the darkness. She didn’t want to think like that, she wanted to think differently, to be less shut off from other ideas and experiences.

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John returned when his meal had spoilt in the oven. He’d been with Gerry. She could smell the alcohol on his breath and it wasn’t the first time he’d chosen overproof rum over the food she’d cooked. He was standing under the light in the kitchen without a hat and his shirt tails were hanging over his jeans. She wondered what they’d been talking about. She caught his sodden, uncertain look. She could tell him what he wanted to hear, that he was everything he imagined himself to be, but she decided she wasn’t that generous any more. The next day she went to find Laura. On her way to put the children down for their nap she’d seen her hanging out washing on the line. Laura was obviously getting ready to leave in the cook’s vehicle that afternoon. Susannah passed John at the table in the sleep-out, writing cheques. It reminded her she’d be alone with him soon and she needed to find something to do. At the end of the yard was a corrugated-iron tank on a stand and a creeper was tangled around its legs. Beside it was a track leading to the creek that ran behind the homestead. She stepped across the timber plank to the other side. The bank rose gradually and further up, where the ground evened out, there was another tank made of concrete. She walked around the side of it, having been there once before when no one was about. A dirty blue tarpaulin shaded the kitchen and in places where leaves had collected, she had to lower her head. Laura was sitting beside one of the trestle tables on a faded orange plastic chair. She was reading. There were other chairs randomly arranged around her. Timber cabinets sat on top of tables, and behind her was a sink made out of half an oil drum

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mounted on a frame. The dirt was hard like concrete and Susannah wondered if it came from termite mounds, remembering that people used this for floors and even tennis courts a long time ago. ‘Hi.’ Laura smiled warmly. ‘Didn’t expect to see you here. I’ve just made some tea, would you like some?’ ‘No, don’t worry,’ said Susannah, standing, her hand resting on the back of a chair. ‘I just came to say goodbye.’ ‘Oh,’ Laura hesitated. ‘I’m staying. With Texas. I thought someone might have told you.’ Susannah held the back of the chair with both hands. She didn’t like being surprised. ‘John might have . . . but I probably wasn’t listening. I see. So what are you going to do? There’ll be no one here to cook for you.’ ‘Um, sorry, I hadn’t really thought about that.’ ‘Yes, well. John won’t want you eating with us. You’ll have to eat with Gerry on the veranda. And you’ll have to work. We can’t feed you for nothing.’ Returning to the homestead, Susannah sensed change; the heat was heavy with moisture and clouds threatened. She looked for her husband. ‘Why didn’t you tell me she was staying?’ He looked up from the desk. She was standing over him. ‘I’ve asked Texas to stay on and do some work round the place.’ ‘What about her?’ ‘She’s just his bloody woman. What can I do?’

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II Each morning the sky was clear and she knew what had to be done and then clouds with dark underbellies thickened and covered the sun. It became harder to think, and her body felt like it needed to be wrung out. But it never rained. It was only the build-up. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something might happen, something might happen to one of them. The country was so colourless, unless a shaft of light fell through a gap, and then the red, the green and the yellow became bold and intense and out in the paddock the silver skin of the boab seemed to simmer. She moved the sprinklers around the yard, glancing in at Laura’s room when she passed, checking to see where they were; if they were down at the shed, finding a reason to be there and everywhere and beside the tree that screened their sleep-out, catching an image of a couple together. She was curious about their relationship and perhaps a little envious of their closeness, the way they touched each other. Then the weather lifted and the days returned to dry, hard heat and she forced herself to forget about them. John was talking into the handset of the Flying Doctor radio. The boys were eating jam-covered crusts. ‘Roger, over.’ She looked up as he replaced the handset. ‘I’ve got to go to Perth.’ She took their plates over to the sink. ‘There’s a plane going from the airstrip near town. It’ll just

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be for a few days or maybe a week. There’s a course they want me to do and then some planning meeting.’ He reached across for the bread, mug of tea in his other hand, and then, standing, leant against the bench as he ate and drank. Long legs crossed at the ankle. ‘Texas is going to do a bit of fencing. He’ll have to camp out,’ he said with his mouth full. ‘Laura can give you a hand with the kids.’ Laura was at the doorway as though summoned and Susannah wondered briefly what she was thinking. ‘Tell Texas I want to speak to him,’ he told her. Susannah glanced through the angled glass at the profile of the stockman as he faced the direction of the hills, his rollie stub between his lips, smoke whispering from his nose. John called through the flywire. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’ Texas acknowledged him with a slight turn of his head. He pulled down the brim of his hat and she couldn’t see him any more. John followed her into the bedroom. She asked him to take their best suitcase down from the top of the cupboard. She opened it flat on the bed. It smelt of somewhere else. He stood on the other side of the bed. ‘You’ll need a tie,’ she said. ‘I’m not wearing a bloody tie.’ ‘Aren’t you doing a course?’ He looked towards the wardrobe and back. ‘Do you think I need a tie?’

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He suddenly looked like Ollie. She reached into the back of the drawer and pulled out his only tie, which was navy blue and striped thinly in red and white. ‘You’ll be all right,’ she said. He watched her fold his clothes and place them neatly in the suitcase. When it was nearly full he left his side of the bed and came around behind her. His arms appeared across her chest and he sighed into her neck. She let her body relax into his and for a moment she watched the loose end of a spider’s web dance as though it was a living thing against the wall. He released her and fastened the suitcase. ‘Thank you,’ he said, before he left the room. She stared across the bed to where his pillow rested beside hers, feeling strangely vulnerable without him. She breathed deeply the shaded air. A dove’s wing pattered on the other side of the screen and it cooed doodle doo, it’ll do, it’ll do, through the flywire. Sounds were louder with the generator turned off. She heard a vehicle start down by the sheds and the little boys’ chatter on the lawn. Then there was Laura’s voice, her London accent familiar from all the British comedies on the ABC that Susannah had watched with her mother. Susannah moved into the laundry. Clothes were in piles on the floor: shirts and shorts, faded and soft, wrinkled and crumpled, baskets brimming. She was swimming in clothes, suffocated by everyone’s clothes. She pushed open the white gate into the yard, noticing her bare arm red from sunburn and the gate wet from the sprinkler. She stepped out of the shade and the sun pierced

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the back of her eyes. She had just returned from visiting Irish to tell him that John would be away for a few days. Irish reminded her of a man who used to help her father with the mulesing. They were both old men who kept away from the cities and their own pasts for reasons they never revealed. The man who worked for her father came from Austria many years ago and used to own one of the virgin blocks that bordered the boundary of their farm. He lived alone in a caravan in the bush. Sometimes he came for dinner and he sat opposite her father; both of them cleaned of the lambs’ blood which by the end of the day had hardened on their hands and faces. His land was taken away by the government because, unlike the other farmers in the area, he’d resisted clearing it all, warning there would be problems with the drainage of water if he did. It bothered her that she couldn’t remember his name or if he still lived on the edge of their farm; if he was still alive to see the salt patches spreading in that part of the country. Her head felt as though it was stuffed full of cloud. She thought it was probably the heat. It was becoming humid again. She smoothed the seams of her T-shirt from her waist to her hips and it reassured herself of her own shape. Laura was squatting with her arm outstretched, her head level with the boys as the two of them peered into her cupped hand. Susannah couldn’t see what she was holding. Ollie hopped about on one foot while Ned, his body stiff with intense excitement, continued to lean towards Laura. Then he shuffled backwards. He looked up across the lawn, noticing his mother.

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‘Look, Mummy. It’s a frog.’ ‘A frog,’ echoed Ollie, hopping in a circle around Laura. ‘A froggy frog, a froggy frog, a froggy frog.’ Ollie’s dance widened to include Susannah. In Laura’s hand was a small dark green frog. Laura smiled and straightened carefully, the frog pinned to her hand by her thumb. ‘Litoria splendida. The magnificent green tree frog,’ she said, adding apologetically, ‘My dad was a biology teacher. Used to bore us to death with details from his latest herpetology newsletter.’ Her face shone with warmth. ‘It’s amazing. These frogs were only discovered recently. They’re usually found in caves and places that are damp and dark.’ ‘Really,’ said Susannah, and to the boys, ‘Shush, you’re making a lot of noise.’ ‘Give me a look.’ ‘I want to see the frog. I want to see the frog.’ ‘You’d think they’d boil in this heat, wouldn’t you?’ said Laura to Susannah. ‘Can we kill it?’ asked Ollie. ‘No,’ said Laura, laughing. ‘We must look after him. People think they’re very special. Native Americans put them at the bottom of their totem poles.’ Laura knelt down between the boys. ‘What we’ll do is we’ll find a container and we’ll keep him as a pet. What do you think?’ She looked up at Susannah. ‘Is that okay?’ ‘Sure.’ Susannah shrugged and turned away. A willy-willy gusted dustily at the edge of the lawn, disturbing the dry leaves and the little baked pieces of rock.

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III Susannah lay on the bed she shared with her husband. A breeze moved through the trees and the leaves clattered together. Her head was enveloped by the pillow for the foam had started to separate. Someone had turned the lighting plant on again. It must have been Irish, since Texas was still camped out on the boundary. She could hear the pulse of the engine quicken as it kicked into gear and the light flashed above her. It was only supposed to be on during certain times of the day and night, to conserve fuel, but there was no schedule now that her husband was away. When it went off she let clothes soak in the tub. She could hear children’s voices and then quick little feet becoming fainter as they travelled up the hallway. Susannah imagined what it might be like to be someone else. A rider swinging up into the saddle, leaning into the horse’s warmth, gathering up the reins, squeezing with her knees and feeling the horse move beneath her, faster and faster. Her centre would become the centre of her horse, in rhythm, rocking, and crossing the country, long shadows slipping quickly past. The frog sat in a clear Tupperware container on the bench beside the sink. They’d poked holes in the lid for it to breathe. Amber eyes with a black elongated pupil. Its legs tucked into itself. The children called it Hoppy. Susannah wiped around the container. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ Laura peered in at the frog. ‘Look at

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the bright yellow outline of its legs. When it jumps away from predators it flashes yellow to startle them.’ Susannah stopped what she was doing and watched her. Laura looked up and flushed slightly. ‘Frogs are great, don’t you think? We’ve killed almost all of ours off except for the grass frog.’ ‘I hadn’t really thought about them,’ said Susannah. ‘We used to cut them up for biology.’ ‘In the backyard of our house in London we had a pond where frogs would spawn. Every year I watched them hatch into tadpoles.’ ‘I used to catch tadpoles,’ said Susannah, turning to face Laura. Susannah pulled out a chair and sat down. She clutched in both hands the cloth she had been using to wipe the bench. ‘When we were kids I remember at the end of our driveway there were gravel pits which used to fill up with water in the winter. There would be islands and sometimes we made bridges between them with old fence posts. We had a dog. I’d follow her through the scrub so that I wouldn’t get caught up in these big spiders’ webs. The bush there is full of chittick and banksias. And orchids as well. You had to look carefully to see them.’ Susannah stopped then and Laura came back into focus. But Susannah wasn’t ready to see her so she looked away. ‘Where was this?’ asked Laura. ‘Oh . . .’ said Susannah reluctantly. ‘South from here.’ She twisted the cloth in her hand. There was a silence that widened into an ocean.

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IV Irish moved lopsidedly along the track. Susannah could see the water level had dropped where it crossed the road. Frogs made plonk plonk noises from below the grassy banks. Irish turned off the road, following the creek upstream towards the sound of running water. The old man was leading, the two boys in between, walking quietly, occasionally looking over their shoulders to check where their mother was. They followed the meanderings of the creek. Grass grew to the edges and saplings leant towards it. The water was shallow where it ran noisily over rocks and stones like a small rapid. Leaves from the trees on the other side of the bank lay on its surface, flecking the mirror image of a sky framed by foliage. Irish reached a flattened patch of grass where the bank rose a little higher and, below, the water was still, and rustles in the bush hinted of animals they didn’t want to see. They watched as he baited a small hook with what looked like a piece of red meat from a tobacco tin. His breath rattled noisily. ‘I want to . . .’ whined Ollie. ‘Shush,’ said Susannah. ‘Remember what he said. Come, we’ll sit here and then we’ll be able to see when he gets a fish.’ They heard the wings of a large bird leave the water further down. ‘Pelican,’ Irish said wheezily as he threw his line into the water. How strange, she thought, for it to be so far inland. The baited hook landed with a gentle plop and little rings of water

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widened around it. Susannah couldn’t see the bottom. She looked around for something to sit on and settled on a fallen tree branch. Ollie moved in to lean against her. ‘Mummy,’ he spoke in an exaggerated whisper. ‘Can the fishes see us out their window?’ ‘Ha ha, fishes don’t have windows,’ said Ned scornfully. Ollie pushed Ned’s shoulder. ‘Do so.’ ‘Be quiet both of you, else we go home.’ Susannah took Ollie and held his arms. ‘The water is like a window. I don’t know whether they see like we do.’ There were no creeks or rivers on the farm where Susannah grew up. Just ground water which seeped to the surface and created stark wooden sculptures where once there had been trees. Irish was sitting on a tree stump and his breathing seemed to have settled a little. He cleared his throat and spat into the creek. She wanted to ask him if he was okay. She saw the line twitch in his hand. He jerked it. ‘Bastard. Gone.’ He pushed the brim of his hat back. ‘When I was a young fella . . .’ The line went taut and he stood up. She saw it zigzag across the water. Muscles in his forearms stretched tight as he pulled it towards him. All of them, standing; the boys struggling to contain themselves. The line dug deep into the rough skin of his forefinger and gathered loosely at his feet. Straining, he landed the fish in the grass where it lay flapping. ‘Not a bad size eh?’ The boys leant over it. ‘It’s talking,’ shouted Ned.

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The gold-coloured fish gasped. It was like the bream that swam in the southern rivers. She leant in closer. It was making a grunting noise. Irish picked the fish up under its gills and worked the hook free. The boys moved back towards her. He laid the fish on the grass again and used his knife to remove its scales. The sun slipped behind the trees and the creek was in shadow. He cut an opening in the fish with his knife and hooked out its guts with his finger. ‘Good tucker,’ he said, wiping the blade of his knife on his trousers, holding the fish in his other hand. The light was leaving. Irish sat down on his tree stump, facing them instead of the river. He placed the fish on the grass beside him and the boys crawled towards it then rested on their haunches. Ollie picked up a stick and prodded its eye. ‘Watch im, he might bite.’ The boys edged a little way back and Irish grinned. His teeth were an ugly brown and his lips were blue. There was a splash in the water further upstream. ‘Are there crocodiles in the river?’ ‘Maybe a little one, you know freshwater.’ ‘What about in town?’ ‘I stay out of town. Too much fighting and drinking these days. All me old mates have gone.’ He cleared his throat and unscrewed the tobacco tin lid. It was the one with the bait. He replaced it and took the other one from his pocket. ‘Them poor little half-caste blokes gone to that government station. Like that fella Texas, he was one of them. Taken away

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when he was just a snipe. Same time his mob were moved off here.’ She’d heard of Aboriginal people being forced from stations, leaving their country to live on the fringes of towns, but she hadn’t known anyone directly affected by it. His eyes narrowed as he lit the rollie with a match. Light flashed and went out and the smoke caught him and his body seized, coughing. He stood up and the coughing subsided eventually. They all watched him replace the tobacco tin. ‘You know, I could take you into town. See a doctor.’ Irish stared past the gaps in the trees to where the water was coloured pink by the sky. ‘No need of them old girls any more.’ He sat down again on the broken branch. ‘Texas and his cousin, they hadn’t worked out here since the other bloke was running the show.’ It took her a moment to realise what he was talking about. ‘How did he get a name like Texas?’ she asked. ‘Ah, from when he was a snipe I reckon. He grew up over the back here, maybe twenty, thirty years ago. I remember all them little fellas, keen as mustard, hanging about the yards like a mob of galahs.’ He paused, wheezing gently. ‘One of them bloomin old ringers probably give it to him and it just stuck. Those fellas, they been sitting on a horse or riding a bull from the time they could walk. Better than any fella.’ She remembered watching some of the men ride out one morning. Before they appeared, she heard shod hooves strike the stony track, horses’ bits jangling, and from the veranda she could smell their tobacco. They rode through the opening in

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the fence and then one of them turned back to close the gate. He leant down, holding his reins in one hand, kicking his horse, manoeuvring it backwards, and then squeezed it forward and it leapt into a lumpy canter to catch up with the others. They were heading north-west away from the homestead to where the country rose steadily and then sharply towards a sandstone ridge. The sun was not long up and it lit the slope and the bright textured rock and the rounded curves of the animals. They stepped out in single file through clumps of grass with thin wispy spears and balls of spinifex and lean white trees, and in that moment time had seemed to stretch like the line of men as their horses separated and settled into their own pace. Irish reached for his fish and stood up and dangled the tail over the boys so that they shrieked with gleeful horror. He held it out to her. ‘Here, you take it for supper eh?’ ‘Oh no, I couldn’t, you need it.’ He nodded towards her. ‘I got me some leftover stew.’ She didn’t really relish the thought of eating this inland fish but he obviously wanted her to have it. She herded the boys out of the long grass and along the track, carrying the fish by a piece of transparent line that Irish had threaded through its mouth and gills. The harsh exclamations of cockatoos in the treetops followed them home. She noticed as soon as they reached the homestead that the generator was off. There had been an unnatural absence of sound all afternoon but she hadn’t realised what it meant. There were no lights anywhere. She hoped Irish would turn on the lighting plant when he

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returned to his camp. She ushered the boys into the dim hallway, wondering where Laura was, then she saw her out on the veranda. She’d taken two chairs from the kitchen and was sitting on one of them and resting her feet on the other. She must have noticed Susannah’s eyes on her book because she leant down and picked it up off the ground. ‘I found heaps of these cowboy stories over at the camp. Have you read this one?’ She held it close to her face since it was almost dark now and read: ‘Clayt Blain turned Shana away from him, but kept her locked under his encircling arm. Together, they walked in the dying sunlight to the ranch house. The End.’ She looked up and grinned. ‘Is that romantic or not?’ ‘I don’t have time to read,’ said Susannah, thinking about the children and what to do with the fish. ‘Oh and what’s happened to the lights? They’re not working?’ Susannah looked back at her. ‘The generator’s off. And Irish doesn’t seem to have done anything about it.’ She continued half to herself: ‘I don’t know where Gerry is.’ ‘So you mean we’re without light?’ ‘If Irish doesn’t get it going.’ The kitchen darkness was unfriendly and behind her was Laura, holding the door open for the remnants of outdoor light. The torch was at the end of the bench and when she turned it on light swept around the edges of the room. At the storeroom door she asked Laura to hold the torch while she looked for the candles, concentrating on what was within the circle of light and not the strange shadows it produced, thinking it was like the beam of a lighthouse. There was a

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bundle on the shelf below the tobacco and quickly she reached for it and retreated. They placed the candles in jars around the kitchen and told the boys to stay away from them and eventually the children grew tired of prancing and dancing in front of the monster-like shapes they created. She bathed them quickly since they smelt of the fish. They’d swum it across the lawn and into the bougainvillea, which was where she decided it could stay. After all the jobs were done she noticed that somehow the warm glow from the candles had transformed her kitchen, her children were content and the face of the woman across the table was comfortably familiar. She thought fleetingly of Irish and wondered if she should have gone to see him. ‘I was just thinking. Before I came here I’d never been anywhere where there wasn’t any electric light.’ Laura was smiling in a sort of self-satisfied way and it irritated Susannah. ‘I remember,’ Laura continued, ‘I was on a bus on the King’s Road and I saw a sign which said Outback Adventures and there was a picture of a kangaroo and I think it must have been Ayers Rock. And then when I came here I met a man in the pub who said his name was Outback. I thought he was joking but he even gave me his card.’ Susannah took the children’s bowls to the sink and turned around. ‘Why did you come here?’ ‘I always wanted to work on a station in Australia. For as long as I can remember.’ Susannah allowed herself a small smile, and then she said: ‘I’d better put the children to bed.’

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When she returned she was surprised that Laura was still there. She had cleaned the kitchen and washed up the dishes. In another place they might have been friends. Laura faced her. ‘I’ve just put the kettle on. Do you want one?’ Susannah was about to say that she would see her in the morning. ‘Why don’t we have a drink?’ she said instead, suddenly feeling lighter, more generous. Laura’s hair was below her shoulders and the blonde streaks glinted in the candlelight. She wore a green singlet and khaki shorts and she looked like every other young girl Susannah had seen with a backpack travelling around Australia. ‘You’ve got a new necklace?’ Susannah had noticed it before. It was a more delicate chain than the one Laura had previously worn. In the middle of the heart-shaped pendant was a cloudy, milky-coloured stone with flecks of blue. It looked like an opal. Laura’s hand reached up to clasp it. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Texas gave it to me.’ And she looked to Susannah’s left, towards the panel of louvres, her gaze limpid in the yellow light. Her focus returned and the colour was high on her cheeks. ‘He brought it back as a surprise. I didn’t realise he went into town to see his family.’ Susannah could see that she was in love with the stockman. It made her impatient and she reached for the glass of rum, staring into its contents before she swallowed. ‘Well, anyway,’ she said, looking up, ‘at least you’ve got your air ticket. If you ever want to leave.’

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The girl’s eyes dropped to her glass and she moved it around in her hand. ‘I’m going to stay,’ she said. ‘I want to be with him. I’ll make it work. I know my parents will be upset but once they meet him I’m sure they’ll understand and this life, it’s so . . .’ She paused, searching for the right word. Susannah waited. There were lots of words she could have inserted and the one Laura chose wasn’t among them. ‘It’s so exciting,’ said Laura with a bright smile. ‘Really.’ Susannah gulped down more rum. She knew there was so much she could say but she didn’t know where to start, and besides, why should she tell this girl anything? No one had told her. ‘But you must be used to it,’ continued Laura. ‘I guess it’s not the same when you grow up here.’ ‘I didn’t grow up here,’ said Susannah. ‘Oh yes, I remember, you said you were from somewhere in the south.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well . . . what was it like growing up there?’ Laura’s entire body seem to sparkle with expectation. Susannah drained her glass and was quiet for a moment, remembering. ‘It was fairly flat country and we grew clover and wheat and barley and I used to help my dad with the sheep until I went away to high school. ‘When we were little my brother and I used to get dropped off by the school bus and my mother always had biscuits or cake that she’d baked and a glass of milk and Milo. I’d get an

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apple for my pony. She’d look out for you, her ears twitched forward, and she had this noise she used to make, and then I’d ride everywhere, all over the farm. It’s what I want for my kids. That opportunity.’ ‘Oh,’ said Laura, ‘I can’t wait to have children.’ Susannah refilled her glass and pushed the bottle into the middle of the table. She leant back in her seat. Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve no idea, have you?’ The rum was like a charge sparking, igniting her fury. Laura sat a little straighter in her chair, looking wary. Perhaps she could see it in Susannah’s eyes. ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid,’ said Susannah. ‘You’re going to have children? What are you going to do, drag them around from one bloody station to the next? Stick a baby in a cot on the back of a horse, or under a tree while you go mustering?’ Laura stood up. ‘I know what I’m doing. I don’t need to listen to you. I think you’re jealous.’ She was at the door. ‘I’ve seen you, watching us, and I think it’s sick.’ Susannah was suddenly very tired. ‘Here, take a candle with you,’ she said.

V Susannah woke when daylight penetrated the thin weave of the curtain and slowly she became aware of the soft worn sheets lightly covering her body and the empty space beside her and

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the louder than usual cacophony of bird sounds which could only mean that the generator was still turned off. Without it, there was no beat that helped determine the time of the day and everything that should happen within it. She felt vaguely disturbed, thinking it was probably the residue from the rum, remembering the conversation with Laura and regretting it. Her thoughts changed shape and suddenly it became important to find Irish. The twitters and whistles of birds punctuated the inevitable quiet. She had never been inside his caravan but he didn’t answer when she called out so she stepped up into the dim interior that smelt so bad it almost made her sick. What squalor. How could anyone live like that? Her eyes took time to adjust and she could see the outline of the bunk and the rumpled blanket and the items of clothing and what looked like little white wings scattered over everything. She realised they were scrunched pieces of toilet tissue. She paused for a moment, holding her breath, thinking she should have checked in the engine room. He was probably already there. The two blackened diesel engines sat side by side in the dense little room. She half expected one of the big wide belts to start moving of its own accord and she was glad to be back outside in the bright light of the day. She shielded her eyes with her hand and looked towards the line of trees that marked the creek and the pool where they were the evening before. Her shadow was long and thin and her elbow pointed like an arrow. She looked away from the sun and over the sheds to the hills beyond the homestead.

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In the paddock behind the house the ground started to slope towards a crown of sandstone rock, but before it rose steeply there was a fence and something hanging from it. It was a piece of cloth, soft faded cotton, caught on one of the wire barbs. The sun lit the red-coloured earth and it glowed with an eerie brightness. Looking up at the ridge of rock that ran all the way along the top of the hills, it was like a deep red scar that interrupted the benign blue sky. She doubted he would have come this way but she’d have a good view from there and it didn’t seem too far to walk. She left behind the scrap of material, thinking it could have been there for weeks or months. Perhaps she would be able to see him from the ridge; if he was fishing or if he’d gone somewhere else. He certainly hadn’t driven anywhere. She remembered his old vehicle in the same place it always was, parked in the shed beside the workshop. A gust of wind rattled the nearby windmill and it swung around to catch the breeze, the piston moving up and down, making a solitary shushing sound. She climbed over the fence and stepped through the grass quickly where the ground was mostly level, but it was thicker than she thought and she was glad of her jeans and her sandshoes. Treading heavily as a warning to any snakes. She picked up a strong snappy-gum stick for protection. As she started to climb higher it became hotter. The breeze was behind her and every now and again she turned and paused to look back where she had come from, feeling the cool air wash over her face. She followed the thin wavering line of a cattle pad or a track created by some other creature and

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eventually the grass on either side thinned and there was more spinifex and gravelly rock. Her shoes slipped a little on the loose stones crunching beneath her feet and the sound of her pulse thumped in her ears. Flies were sticking to her skin, and unlike the flies down south they wouldn’t go away. They seemed attracted to the moisture on her face. It wasn’t far now but it was steep and suddenly a rustle in a big clump of spinifex caused her to start and out of it ran a beautiful bird with a thin spike on its head. Too quickly it was gone and she was left with the memory of gold feathers scalloped and edged in black. Just ahead was a small tree that twisted out of the rock and cast a small area of shade over a boulder that looked like a good place to sit. She was thirsty and she realised how stupid it was not to have brought any water. No one knew where she was. All she had said to Laura was to keep an eye on the children. The air was still and the sun almost overhead. She flicked the flies from her face, hearing the whine of other insects, and all around her the bush twitched with life. The distant homestead roof winked between the dense foliage of the garden’s trees, the bougainvillea a splash of colour amongst it. And beyond there and the dull gleam of the rectangular shed roof was the line of the creek that curved back and forth through the undulations of the land. It looked like the body of a snake and she marvelled at the way patterns were repeated, from the smallest thing to something more permanent like the shape of water. And then she thought how strange it was that the outline of an animal could be so obviously etched in the

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landscape, but her eyes saw further, to the far distance, where, within the folds of the ranges, a woman lay on her back, her breasts bluish-purple mounds. Between the woman and the snake-creek was the flood plain, variously shaded in ochre colours with dots for trees that grew densely in places and sparsely in others. The faint mark of a track or the line of a fence reminded her that it was a landscape used by men. And she wondered where were the cattle, probably keeping to the cool shade of the trees by the creek. Perhaps Irish was there? A kite wheeled above, the tips of its wings edged like fingers as it glided and drifted in spirals. The familiar call of a crow was answered by another. She looked behind her. There, less than twenty metres away, the rock rose up as a sheer cliff face and before it was a small stand of feathery sheoak, or what she thought were sheoaks but they could have been something else, and in amongst the branches were three or four crows. A little to the left of the trees was a crack in the rock which seemed to widen into a small cave as it got closer to the ground and it was then she saw that he hadn’t quite made it. She turned back towards the safety of distance and her dry mouth suddenly flooded with saliva and she swallowed noisily. She didn’t move; she couldn’t. The crows cried horribly. And her eyes traced the line of the ranges and the pale cool light above them and she thought how refreshing it looked, far, far away from the heat and the intensity of the moment. She wouldn’t look behind again. She knew she ought to do something: cover him up or get help from the men. Call the Flying Doctor. Instead she stared out to the plain, so hard

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that her eyes blurred and she could imagine what it might have been like when it was an ancient sea floor and the flowing sea current shaped the hills and the ridges. Ripples solidified into rock. There were fossils to be found in the valley, she knew that, fossils that came before everything. It comforted her: the thought of other lives being lived, over and over again, and in that light her mother’s death did not seem so significant. The old man was gone. She thought of him climbing the hill, stumbling, falling in the dirt, unable to reach the cool darkness of the cave ahead, the liquid in his lungs taking his breath away. Everything he knew was gone too. She imagined his head lying close to the earth, cushioned by mounds of grass. She hoped he was dead before the crows found him. But he knew what the country was like. Then she remembered where her mother was buried. Her grave was among the grey concrete slabs and plastic flowers in the cemetery on the edge of town. At one end of the small fenced enclosure a couple of sickly-looking ornamental trees stood seemingly unnourished by the dead that lay around them. She wondered how often her father visited. When any of their sheepdogs had died, her father dug holes beside different veranda posts, etching their name in the timber, and the grass that covered them always grew more greenly. She would write to her father and ask that he plant something for her on her mother’s grave. Her eyes felt hot and swollen but her face was cool from the moisture on her cheeks. And as she allowed the tears to fall it felt as though the tightness in her chest that had

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been there for so long was unravelling like a spool of cotton. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t see anything. There were some things she didn’t need to see to understand. When she descended, the slope was in shadow.

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With a gun in his fist he was ten feet tall With a gun in his fist he was ten feet tall

I Laura stepped out of her room and closed the flywire door behind her. She looked up. Texas was walking between the garden bushes towards her. His grin showed his teeth and her body relaxed into happiness. ‘Miss me, eh?’ His voice rumbled in his chest and her head was against it and she looked up at him, wanting to say, I’ve missed you so much. I’m nothing without you. ‘How come you’re back?’ ‘Clutch burn out on the post-hole digger. Ground too bloody hard.’ ‘What are you doing now?’ ‘See my woman, eh?’ ‘What about the fence?’ 204

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‘The boss, he got to get someone to bring out the part for it.’ She reached down for his hand, his long slender fingers that were callused and rough. ‘Come with me.’ ‘Sound pretty good,’ he said, laughing quietly as she led him into the quarters that they were about to share. He sat on the bed and took off his boots and pulled the singlet from over his head. She placed her hand on his shoulder and it was hot from the sun and she noticed where his skin was lighter. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘You’ve got a mark where your singlet has been.’ ‘Yeah I got sunburnt.’ She was kneeling on the bed and she looked at him in surprise. ‘Do you get sunburnt?’ He half turned, frowning. ‘Yeah.’ ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I thought . . .’ She was embarrassed but he lay back on the bed, pulling her down with him. The fan rotated lazily above their heads and the movement of air was something solid that swept over their bodies and held them there. ‘Put that Johnny Cash tape on.’ Texas had brought over his ghetto-blaster from his room on the other side of the creek, and it was sitting on a chair between the bed and the wall. She reached over and pressed play, and they lay there, listening to the dense voice of Cash speak the words:

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‘When Robert E Lee surrendered the Confederacy Jefferson Davis was upset about it He said how dare that man rescind an order From the president of the Confederate States of America Then somebody told him that General Lee had made the decision himself In order to save lives because he felt that the battle comin up Would cost about 20,000 lives on both sides And he said 240,000 dead already is enough . . .’ ‘I’ve got to go,’ said Laura, sitting up. ‘Susannah’ll be wondering where I am.’ She leant down and kissed him but he held her arms playfully, preventing her from pulling away. ‘Maybe I don’t let you go.’ ‘You can deal with Susannah then,’ she said lightly but with a slight edge in her voice that revealed her animosity towards the woman. ‘That missus, she’s all right, she’s like a fish trying to get back in the water,’ he said and he started laughing to himself. ‘What are you laughing at?’ He had let go of her arms and she fell back beside him, one hand holding up her head as she watched him. He turned to her, his grin wide. ‘I was thinking. That time when we got here to this place. I was watching those people; they were looking like they were

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going to eat you all up. And I thought, that girl, she going to need a backstop.’ His smile was infectious. ‘Really, what do you mean by backstop?’ ‘Like a . . . you know, a fella that supports another fella.’ ‘Oh, so that’s why you seduced me,’ she said, gently poking his skin. He looked up at the ceiling, grinning smugly. ‘What else is a fella to do when a pretty girl comes into his camp looking like she got an idea?’ ‘It wasn’t all my idea,’ she said, a little defensively. He glanced at her with eyes that crinkled at the edges. ‘Just a little bit your idea. Might be I was thinking about it when your elbow was sticking into me, that time you were sitting in the middle, between the boss and me.’ He lifted his arm and said, ‘Here, come here.’ Bringing her closer. She walked across the lawn, wondering how he could make her feel as though they existed somewhere entirely separate from everyone else. It was as if everything that had ever happened to either of them had been leading to this, to this one thing. She’d never been so happy. The head had fallen off one of the sprinklers and it dribbled water into a widening puddle on the grass and little birds dipped in and out. The thick heat was almost impenetrable as she moved from the shaded area into sunlight, and it was all the more shocking for the contrast. Susannah looked up from the sink. ‘Can you finish here?’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go to the children.’ ‘Texas’s back,’ said Laura, squaring her shoulders.

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Susannah expelled air noisily in a short, sharp sigh, ignoring Laura’s eyes. ‘I s’pose he’ll need feeding as well. Get the salt beef out of the cool room and cut off some more,’ she said before the flywire door closed behind her. ‘The key’s above the sink.’ Susannah was like that now, matter-of-fact and impersonal. It was as though Laura had never sat at her table. In some ways she preferred it this way. At least she knew where she stood. Since John had returned from the city, working for Susannah was more structured and Laura was to be in the kitchen by six every morning, except Sundays. Lists of jobs were prepared and she worked steadily through them; cleaning windows and washing walls and floors. The mindlessness of it all left her open to other experiences, fanciful journeys of thought, where she imagined a life with Texas in a grand two-storey homestead of stone with wide verandas and views from every room. Horses with gleaming coats grazed in the fields below. Laura sat down with Texas on the veranda. Sometimes Gerry joined them but he had gone into town for a couple of weeks. He was taking his time off before the wet. At times she was nervous of the heat, wondering how much she could take and how long it would be before someone would tell her that it was the hottest day, like the longest day of the year in the northern hemisphere. It was impossible to celebrate a hot day, it was enough just to endure, to maintain the boundaries between her and its increasingly physical presence. Texas took a piece of bread from the middle of the table and placed it on his plate and spread margarine over it.

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‘It must be hot out there fencing,’ she said. He looked up. ‘Bloody hot on that rock.’ ‘Is John out there with you?’ ‘Not this week. Last week, he out for half a day.’ John had been back from his city trip for a couple of weeks. He rarely spoke directly to her and she wondered if her presence was tolerated for Texas’s sake. Presumably she was still being paid but she wasn’t sure whether there was a difference between a jillaroo’s wage and a domestic’s. She didn’t want to ask in case they told her she wasn’t needed any more. There were steps around the side of the cool room and John appeared, moving purposefully towards them. He nodded at Texas. ‘I’ll pick up that part on Monday,’ he said. ‘How long you reckon you got left out there?’ ‘That ground too bloody hard for that digger. Need the rain, you know, soften it up,’ said Texas. His eyes not quite meeting John’s when he spoke. ‘No time mate, more cattle coming up, stud animals,’ said John and he removed his hat. ‘Wire it up to one of those snappy gums if you can’t get a post in. Plenty of them out there.’ Although she was looking at Texas, she was aware of John and he leant down and pulled off his boots and placed them beside the kitchen door. Before he opened it, he turned back towards them. ‘Have the day off tomorrow.’ ‘Toyota need oil change and new filters,’ said Texas. ‘When you finish that then.’ And he disappeared into the kitchen and they heard him talking to his children.

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She wondered what she and Texas might do for the wet. They should take a holiday, perhaps go to Darwin together. There would be money for travelling in their bank accounts. After board was taken out, cheques were deposited every month when Susannah or John went to town. Texas was staring past her, the whites of his eyes marked with tired tracks of red, then they returned to her face and the skin creased around them. ‘What you looking like that for?’ he said. She was glad to have his attention. ‘I was just thinking what we might do when we get some time off.’ ‘Go for a drive eh,’ he said. ‘In the afternoon.’

II Laura opened the gate that led out of the homestead yard and crossed the dirt, and although the day was overcast, it seemed the heat was trapped in between. She walked slowly and precisely, her feet in hot socks and boots. Parched pieces of rock scraped beneath them and the memory of the nights sustained her. Of air that became softer in the dark. Air gently pushed around by the fan, the slow, languorous movement of curtain fabric as it let the outside in. The generator was off and the sound of a metal tool dropped on concrete rang out clearly, breaking the heavy muteness of midday. She was carrying a bag with a water container and salt-beef sandwiches that she

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had made herself. She stepped into the gloom of the shed and blinked, her eyes adjusting to the lesser light. The bonnet of the Toyota was up and Texas was leaning in behind it. ‘Are you just about finished?’ she asked. He stepped back. ‘Yeah, start her up.’ She placed the bag with the food and drink on the seat before her and climbed in behind the steering wheel. It reminded her of that afternoon at the end of the rodeo when she drove to the tank along the highway for a bogey. There were too many police on the road for anyone else to drive and the vehicle was crowded with people wanting to cool down. She was stopped, but even though they knew she’d been drinking, they let her continue. About ten kilometres or so down the road Texas pointed out a large concrete tank on her right. She parked close beside it and everyone climbed onto the roof and jumped into water that was cool and clear. She moved over into the passenger seat to let Texas in behind the wheel. He reversed the vehicle out of the shed and into bright light and it seemed that in the short time they’d been in the shed the clouds had moved into one half of the sky and were thickening. ‘Does that mean it might rain?’ ‘Just build-up. No rain yet.’ They were in view of Irish’s old caravan and the bough shed beside it and she remembered the old man and the way he’d died and the thought of it made her feel slightly ill. When John returned he’d called the ambulance to take him away and a few days ago police had come to interview Susannah. She was

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apparently in trouble for not reporting his death but she’d never spoken to Laura about it, and when Laura mentioned it to Texas, he didn’t seem to want to talk about it either. Texas drove the vehicle towards the yards but instead of following the track beside it that led across the creek, he stopped in front of the gate on the other side. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked, opening the door. ‘Maybe go along that ridge there and out into that red flat country.’ She closed the gate, the metal almost too hot to touch, and the sweat on her back dried by the time she returned to the vehicle. The track was rough and rocky and they drove through black-soil country that was well wooded with trees she’d seen many times before, trees with butterfly leaves that were softcolour green with blood-red pods and rust-tinted flowers, and among them were tall, wide bushes that were prickly. Through them, she caught glimpses of a black stony ridge and she remembered on a drive with John, he’d said they were basalt ridges, the oldest in the country. ‘Hold the wheel eh.’ She reached over to steady it while Texas cupped the match to light his rollie. She thought it too hot to smoke. Her elbow rested on the open window and her other arm hung loosely at her side; she was trying to keep it away from the heat of her body. She looked over at Texas, holding the wheel casually and capably, his checked shirt rolled above the elbows, and thought he looked no different to when he rode a horse.

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‘That old fella, he knew all the footwalking road through here. He learnt it from the old people.’ ‘Who, Irish?’ ‘Before Toyota road, old people they walk the same way, except in different place.’ ‘Where?’ she said and looked to his profile that was turned away from her. He glanced back. ‘They walk that place, they know that tree, they know that hill and all around. Not any more. Most of the old people are gone.’ ‘Do you know where they walked?’ He stared ahead, steering the vehicle along the track. ‘When I was a young fella, I was droving cattle.’ They continued for another hour or so. She found it hard to gauge time when everything they drove past seemed to stand motionless in the bleached light. The country was flatter and became redder and there were small rises which they drove over and through and eventually they stopped at some pinkish, pale-coloured rock. ‘This place, maybe nice and cool,’ he said as he turned off the engine. She looked out the window and saw nothing that resembled shelter or shade and the air that entered was thick with heat. He was climbing out his door and pulling the bag of food towards him. ‘You staying there?’ Grinning beneath his hat. Her body came away from the seat wetly and for a moment it was cooling. He was walking ahead of her towards the rock

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and after he climbed over the first few boulders she realised he was descending into a crack in the earth. She followed, clambering over the smooth hot stones, and gradually the rock became cool to touch the further down they went. The walls narrowed and she could touch each side with her hands and they rose almost vertically twenty metres or so and the sky could be seen, framed by the narrow ragged opening above. The rocks were smooth and pale, marked with thin wavering lines of pink, purple and red, and they seemed to be formed in blocks, almost regular in shape. The gap between them widened and Texas was standing beside a circular pool, no more than ten metres across, deep emerald in colour. ‘My god, this is beautiful. Who would have believed it?’ Texas sat down against the rock and took off his hat. ‘Nearly lost a horse over the edge, my old man, that’s how he found it.’ ‘Let’s have a swim,’ she said, resting beside him. ‘That water too deep. That water go a long, long way.’ She’d only been looking at the surface. Descending at dusk into a plain surrounded by shapes that resembled mountains, only smaller. It was hazy with smoke or heat and it was like being in the bottom of a canyon. They drove through a gap in the hills and out into the wide country where the sun was still bright and she recognised the ranges ahead where at the base would be the homestead, the sheds and the yards. It seemed they’d driven in a circle and they would return in another direction from the way they had left. Texas stopped for a gate. A bird of prey hovered, the tips of

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its wings trembling with the effort of staying above in one place. Through the trees on their left was a windmill. She climbed back in the vehicle and Texas drove forwards. He was looking across her and out of the window and she couldn’t read his expression. ‘What is it?’ He swung the vehicle away from the track towards the windmill. Crows spiralled and eagles flew up in wide swooping arcs, and the smell of putrid flesh crashed in on them, and the trees thinned, revealing a scene that was horrifying, of cattle barely standing above many that were dead, blank-eyed and hollow. ‘Cattle smash,’ he muttered. ‘What?’ She immediately thought of a vehicle. ‘But how?’ ‘They got no water.’ Texas stepped out onto the dirt and walked towards the trough. They were the animals she had ridden with, the brahman weaners which had been so carefully looked after, fed mineral supplements and hay. She followed slowly, her hand over her nose, barely able to take it all in. There were maybe five or six alive, standing with front legs splayed, heads dropping to the ground, grey tongues protruding from their open mouths. The rest were bunched together, as though they’d fought one another, some on top of others in a sickening, stinking mound, where bones had been picked at and black flesh torn by birds, and maggots moved in the openings. Texas was staring at the trough blankly. There was dust where there should have been water. She followed his gaze as he looked up, and it travelled

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from the black poly pipe which snaked away from the trough in the direction of the windmill. In places it was submerged by sand and then it surfaced again near the fence and it was in that area that most of the cattle had died. Texas took off his hat, his eyes blinking rapidly. He looked over to the Toyota and back to the cattle that were standing. And then one of them fell, and dust filled its vacant eye. ‘Twenty litres in the back. But it’s too late,’ he said and he replaced his hat on his head and she could no longer see his eyes. ‘What about in the tank?’ ‘That tank empty. Spilled out. See where that pipe broke. Them poor little fellas trying to get that water coming out before it dried up.’ She realised what had happened. ‘But how long has it been like this? Doesn’t Gerry check all the bores and the windmills?’ Then she remembered he was in town and John had been doing it. He told Susannah that was where he was last week. ‘Maybe three or four days in this heat. That’s all it takes for them little fellas.’ As they drove in the direction of the station, the hills beyond it edged in pale light, she realised the worst thing was that it was so close to the homestead. They didn’t speak until he switched off the ignition. ‘I’m going to tell the boss,’ he said, turning towards her, and she caught a glimpse of the hollowed-out look in his eye and then as quickly it was gone and he left the vehicle.

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She wanted to go after him, to hold him, but she knew he wasn’t seeing her. Undressing for a shower, she heard a car engine and saw, through the small window in the bedroom, lights finding a path through the dark. She switched on the globe in the bathroom. The water was warmed by the heat of the day and she scrubbed the smell from her skin and hair. The longer she stood there, the more the memory of the day became like something she might have seen in a movie. She knocked at the kitchen door and when Susannah told her to come in, Laura went to the dishes on the sink, knowing that that was what Susannah wanted when she was at the table feeding the children. ‘What happened out there?’ asked Susannah. ‘Stop that,’ she said to one of the boys as he emptied a spoonful of food on the table. ‘There were some cattle without water.’ Susannah looked up and Laura thought she saw something in Susannah’s face like disgust but then it was gone. ‘Right. Bedtime,’ she said and ushered the boys out the door. Laura said goodnight but they didn’t answer. Even though she didn’t feel like eating, she helped herself to some stew from the pot on the stove and sat on the veranda and listened to the amplified sound of the cicadas as she moved the meat around on the plate. She thought she heard the pop of a gunshot but she couldn’t be sure. Susannah returned and paused by the door for a moment, and Laura thought she might be about to say something but she didn’t. The vehicle returned. She heard the men’s footsteps before they appeared. John

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stepped up onto the veranda and he threw her a look of such extreme dislike that it made her sink back in her chair. The flywire door closed behind him. Texas came towards her and he shook his head slowly. ‘Do you want something to eat?’ she asked quietly. ‘No,’ he said. Noticing the brown dirt on his arms and his jeans, like dried blood. ‘What is it?’ ‘All finished with that fella.’ She was standing, looking through the louvres into the kitchen at the shape of the station couple on either side of the table and the dull light that surrounded them. ‘But what are we going to do? Where will we go?’ ‘I got a good place now,’ he said, managing a tired smile. He placed his hand on her shoulder and they walked across to their quarters.

III Susannah felt the bed move as her husband got up, his figure faintly outlined in the shadows. Neither of them had slept and it was his restless movements that had kept her awake. The light from the bathroom, which was further down the hall, reflected on the wall outside their bedroom door. Even though it was dark behind the curtains, she could hear the twitterings of little

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birds preparing for dawn. When she heard his footsteps leave the house, she climbed out of bed and slipped on the shirt and shorts she’d been wearing yesterday. Standing by the stove in the kitchen, hearing the metal of the kettle creak as it began to heat up, and noticing that behind the louvres, the sky was lightening she became aware of other people’s voices. John was at the shed filling up with fuel. She moved out onto the veranda and on the other side of the lawn she could see the dark shape of Texas as he carried his swag and placed it beside the gate, where John would bring the vehicle. Texas looked back towards the tree in front of the quarters and Susannah realised he was responding to something Laura had said for she emerged from behind it and handed him her backpack. He took it with one hand and with the other he pulled her close and they stood together, his head angled towards hers, she, at the height of his shoulder, looking up at him, and behind them the light was soft, a hazy gold that made everything seem possible. If she could, Susannah would tell her mother that it was beautiful here in the mornings. But that it never lasted. She heard the vehicle start up and returned to the kitchen where she made herself a cup of tea. Listening to the activity around her, feeling like she always did, as though she was on the other side of it. Doors slammed; there were footsteps on the veranda. Her husband was in the doorway. Their eyes met. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ she asked. He shook his head. ‘I’ll pick up the stores. Is there anything else?’ ‘No,’ she said.

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The door closed behind him. And a little while later the vehicle started again. She knew it was them leaving, it was the sound she’d been waiting for, the sound that would mark the moment when she was alone, just her and the children. And because she’d known it was going to happen, she didn’t feel any different. Her head was thick from not enough sleep and perhaps full of words that needed to be spoken, but other than that it was just like any other day. But then the thought of another day to fill seemed to open wide, so wide she felt that the idea itself might engulf her. She wouldn’t let it, though, she was stronger than that. Last night after dinner she’d written out the final cheques for Laura and Texas. She could have given them to John but instead she decided to take them over herself. She didn’t want to think about why they were leaving or what had happened but she needed to show them that she wasn’t like her husband. The couple weren’t in the quarters and so she called out and then in the paddock on the other side of the fence she could make out the orange glow of their cigarettes. She realised as she stood at the fence that they were sitting on a swag a couple of metres away. Laura stood up and came over. ‘I’ve got your cheques here,’ Susannah said. ‘Thanks,’ said Laura. She stepped through the wire and Susannah followed her into the quarters. ‘It must be nice out there,’ said Susannah awkwardly. ‘I guess you can see the stars.’

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Laura was standing in the sleep-out under the globe. She turned back and faced Susannah in the doorway. Laura’s hair hung around her face and she smelt of tobacco. Smiling slightly, she said, ‘Yeah, there’s a bit of lightning around too but Texas said it’ll be a while before it rains.’ She ran her fingers through her hair, pulling it back from her forehead, glancing at the cheques and then at Susannah. ‘It’ll be good to move on,’ she said. Susannah wondered whether she’d ever looked like Laura. There were no hard edges to a woman in love. Her mother would’ve been able to tell her, if she hadn’t been too busy to notice, or perhaps distracted by the cancer that was going to kill her. These days her mother seemed to be forever in her mind. Susannah was allowing her thoughts to go to her instead of closing them off like she’d done in the early days of her grief. The intensity of her sadness was dispersing and separating itself from the other parts of her life. ‘Do you know what time John’s leaving tomorrow?’ asked Laura. Susannah realised with a start that she might have been staring. God knows what Laura thought of her. ‘Um, probably around five,’ she said, turning away. But then she paused in the doorway. ‘I hope everything works out.’ ‘Thanks.’ ‘Where would you like us to forward your mail?’ Laura’s eyes flicked to the side of the door. She suddenly looked uncertain. ‘Oh, I guess just to the GPO in town.’

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‘All right then. Bye.’ ‘Bye.’ Sitting now with her cup of tea, the air in the kitchen beginning to heat up as the sun rose higher in the sky, she wondered what it would be like to be Laura. Is that what she wanted? To be leaving? Was she envious? She’d like to have been in her skin, to be able to feel what she was feeling, but she wouldn’t like the uncertainty. Perhaps it was why she married John. So she didn’t have to think about the future, about what was to come next. Marriage saved her from that and so did the children. She just hadn’t realised there wouldn’t be much room to breathe. Her mother would say she was thinking too much again. It was time to get the children up. She drained her cup and rinsed it underneath the tap. Ollie was awake. He had pulled the sheet from his bed and draped it across to the chest of drawers. He was sitting underneath it as though in a small tent. ‘What are you doing, Ollie?’ ‘Shush,’ he said in an exaggerated whisper. ‘It’s okay, it’s time to get up.’ Ollie looked disappointed as he watched his brother stir. He probably liked those moments to himself. ‘Come on, breakfast,’ she said and helped them into their clothes. Back in the kitchen she was trying not to think about the two who had left. Laura and Texas had made life bearable because even when she wasn’t watching them, she knew they were there. They were like a story she could dip in and out of

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and now she wondered how it would end. She missed Irish too but she had no idea who he was. And she wasn’t the only one. When she saw the police vehicle parked at the gate, she almost took off to the hills herself. But they just wanted to look through his belongings to establish his identity for the coroner. They didn’t find very much. Some old Christmas cards from people without return addresses and photos without captions. There were mostly Post magazines from the 1960s but amongst them they found a note from the Commissioner of Native Affairs dated sometime in the 1940s. The ink had faded too much for it to be read clearly. It was headed Notice of Objection to Application for Certificate of Citizenship and the person it referred to was a woman called Charlotte but the surname was impossible to decipher. ‘Why would he have something like this?’ she asked. The policeman who found it didn’t know but the other one said, ‘They probably wanted to get married.’ ‘So why would he need that?’ ‘Well presumably he was Australian and with her being Aboriginal she’d have to be a citizen for them to be legally married.’ ‘Really,’ said Susannah, puzzled. ‘Surely she was more Australian than anybody?’ ‘You’d think so.’ ‘Why would it have been refused?’ The policeman shrugged and looked closely at the document. ‘They’ve got the reasons written here. You just can’t read them. I’ve seen it before among some old records. Probably for

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associating with her family, other Aboriginal people. The idea was to get them to behave more like the whites.’ ‘It’s sort of crazy when you think about it,’ said the other policeman. ‘There were some pretty undesirable white blokes around in those days.’ She remembered Irish’s stories of men who held headbutting competitions and played Russian roulette for fun at Christmas; men who drank themselves to death before anything worse could happen. They were the frontier men who followed the cattle into this country. When John found out that Irish had died, he shouted at her. ‘Don’t you realise it is illegal not to report a death. You can’t leave him to rot on the hill. It’s not allowed.’ ‘I don’t see why not,’ she said. ‘Well if everyone did that, the whole country would be filled with dead bodies.’ He spoke as though he was talking to a child. ‘Probably already is,’ she said. ‘Who would know?’ He looked at her strangely. But the policemen had been very nice and waived the fine she’d incurred for not reporting his death immediately. One of them said there had to be some compensation for living so far from anywhere. Her gaze returned to her children. She sighed loudly. Ned looked up from his bowl of cereal. ‘Mummy, can we take the duck swimming?’ ‘Can we, can we?’ squealed Ollie, wriggling off his chair. ‘When you finish your breakfast,’ she said.

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But they were already out of their chairs and she didn’t have the energy to make them come back. It was too hot. The fan was on full speed but all it did was make the air more noticeable. She really should put on a load of washing but instead she followed them out into the garden to where the plastic wading pool was resting against a tree. She pulled it down and placed it in the shade. She gave the boys the hose and turned on the tap and then went inside to get some towels. As she settled on a towel under the tree, she thought briefly of snakes and decided that with the amount of noise they were making, they’d scare them away. They sprayed her with the hose but she didn’t object until it looked like the water might ruin the book she was reading. It was called By Sundown and she could tell from the cover that there would be a big shoot-out and the men would get their women. She’d only just started it. There was something about the books that compelled her to read on until the end. Perhaps it was the words ‘The End’ that appealed; you knew everything would be put right by the time you finished reading the last page. One of the women was called Laura and Susannah was nearly distracted from the story into thinking about the other Laura. Laura was the pretty girl in the blue bonnet that was promised to the deputy sheriff in Jonesburg, Kansas. Then there was Brooke who dressed rather too colourfully for a respectable woman. She had a superb figure with a tiny waist, rounded hips, long silkenclad legs and full breasts and had just arrived in town on the stage coach.

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Every story was the same. There were two women, one of whom was desired by all the men and the other who was the good little wife. It could be her and Laura, except the other way round, but Susannah didn’t feel like the good wife either. The deputy, called Clint Messenger, was the sixth man to wear the badge within the space of a year. The others had either been shot or ran out of town by the Texas cowboys. And the news was the cowboys were returning to Jonesburg—lean, lithe-hipped men with tied-down guns, some of them as wild and unpredictable as the longhorns they hazed up over the Texas Panhandle. Susannah looked up from the book to check on the boys. Ollie was sitting in the pool playing with his plastic duck and nearby Ned was hosing water over the trucks he’d lined up on the grass. The water sparkled in the sun and the light behind the boys was so bright that it seemed to white out the view beyond the fence. She blinked to clear the spots from her eyes so she could focus on the words, but they leapt around a bit until her eyes grew used to the page again. Clint Messenger looked south and saw a blood-red moon climbing into the sky. It was shining through a great haze of red alkali dust. There was no wind. The dust was lifting from a thousand plodding longhorn hooves eating up the last dry miles between Texas and Jonesburg, Kansas. The Texans were coming. Susannah put the book down. She realised why people read these stories when they worked on stations. The ringers who went into town to spend their cheques when the mustering season was over were not that different from the Texas cowboys, although they didn’t shoot each other. Not that she’d heard

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anyway. She remembered the woman from the co-op saying you knew when the season was over because the pub and the tavern were full. In the story the young deputy was going to have to control the drunk and trigger-happy Texans and meanwhile he was neglecting his fiancée because he’d taken a liking to the other woman, Brooke. Susannah sighed. Of course he had. She really should put the book away. There were things to be done in the house. She remembered she didn’t have to bake any bread today since John would be bringing some home from town. But she needed to sort out the clothes and clean the bathroom and check the meat supply and plan what they would be having for dinner. She wondered when Gerry was returning. He was another person she would have to feed. She picked up the book again. Tall, hard-bitten men turned to stare as the man with the badge strode up. It was three days since the first herd had arrived but there had been no real trouble so far. A few scuffles, one or two arrests for drunkenness and a few half-hearted insults between Kansans and Texans. Clint had managed the Texans far better than most had expected. He found them suspicious, pugnacious and wild in drink, but not mean and vicious as he’d been led to believe. They were spending their money on drink and gambling at the Texas Palace Saloon. Susannah looked up. ‘Where’s Ned?’ she asked Ollie. And then she saw him on the veranda. The shade had moved so that part of the pool was in the sun. She stood up and told

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Ollie to get out so that she could bring the pool back into the cooler part of the lawn. ‘Are you hungry?’ She picked up her book and they followed her into the kitchen. She gave them cordial and a biscuit each. Ned started crying when he dropped his on the floor. ‘You won’t get another one if you don’t stop.’ He looked at her blackly but was silent and she handed him another biscuit. It wasn’t until after lunch that she was able to pick up the book again. The boys were in their room resting. They were feeling the heat too. She’d done two loads of washing so she allowed herself the luxury of lying under the fan in the bedroom. Things had come to a boil with the Texans. Full of whiskybolstered courage, they were looking for the gambler Race Buchanan. Laura came to the jailhouse to find Clint. She met Buchanan and asked him about Brooke. ‘We were lovers in the south, Laura, nothing more, nothing less. I was content to continue the way we were, for I had no illusions about eternal love and such nonsense. Brooke wanted wedding bells and orange blossoms. So I left her. Decamped, I heard Brooke was distraught. I didn’t hear until much later that she had also lost the child I didn’t know she was carrying . . .’ His voice had grown softer and softer. ‘She must have loved you a lot to be hurt so deeply.’ ‘There’s no such thing. Or if there is, I’ve never encountered it.’ Laura felt challenged. ‘I love Clint.’

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‘Need, want, desire perhaps. It’s all selfish, Laura, it’s a great sham.’ ‘I’d rather die than feel the way you do.’ The shooting started. Susannah skipped over most of it now that she was nearing the end. The women joined in, placing themselves in the line of fire, to be near the men they loved. Susannah reached the part where Race Buchanan realised he loved Brooke. It had taken a woman to show him that life was about self-sacrifice, nobility and dedication to duty. Susannah couldn’t read any more. She didn’t even want to get to the end. Instead she ripped the book in half, tearing it into pieces easily. There wasn’t much to it and she let the scraps of paper fall all over the bed. Lying back on her pillow, she watched the fan rotate above her head; round and round it went. Her mother had the same ideas about sacrifice and duty and at that moment she decided that everything she hated about her life was her mother’s fault. She was not going to live her mother’s story. She would create a new one for herself.

IV It was about eight o’clock when Susannah heard the sound of a vehicle slowing for a gate. It was quite far away and even though it was most likely John, she turned off the light in the kitchen and waited in the darkness for it to arrive. She’d put the children to bed about half an hour ago and she was on her second can of beer. She wished they were full strength because

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they didn’t seem to be doing anything to make her feel more cheerful. It was John’s four-wheel drive and it stopped in front of the yard. The lights flicked off and she watched him get out of the car. For some reason she stayed where she was, listening to his footsteps on the veranda and the sound of his boots falling to the floor. The door squeaked open and his shape filled the doorway. ‘I’m here,’ she said flatly. ‘Shit. What are you doing? Frightened the bloody daylights out of me. What’s happened to the light?’ ‘Nothing.’ The fluorescent tube flickered and she caught glimpses of him, hatless and uncertain. Eventually it became solid light and she saw that his eyes were red and he was unsteady on his feet. ‘Have you been drinking?’ she asked. He shot her a glance. ‘Looks like you’re doing all right yourself.’ She brought the can up to her mouth and swallowed and then set it down again. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’ He shrugged. ‘Never thought you were really into it.’ He pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘What’s for dinner?’ ‘I haven’t cooked any.’ He nodded slightly as though it was nothing unusual. Then he leant forward on the table and rested his elbows, supporting his chin with one hand and holding his forehead with the other, as though the weight was too much to bear. He looked up at her. ‘Do you want to leave, is that it? You can if you want.’

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She was finding it hard to maintain the anger when he wasn’t giving her anything to fuel it. She was angry with herself, and perhaps with her mother most of all, for creating the ideas that were suffocating them both. He looked small in the chair with his shoulders slumped forwards. ‘Where’s your hat?’ ‘Dunno, might have left it in the bar.’ ‘What happened in town?’ He sighed. ‘There was a message at the co-op. Arne’s on his way up.’ ‘Does he know about the cattle?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘I’ll have to tell him when he gets here.’ She realised they’d both been trapped. He was just as constrained by the idea of how he was supposed to behave as she was. He should be able to make mistakes and she should be able to move away from the kitchen. ‘You know it’s only a job. Being on this place, out here.’ He frowned. ‘You’re not making any sense.’ ‘I was just thinking. It’s different now. From the way people used to be in this country. It’s not about being a bloody hero. We’re just doing a job. And we can do it in another place if we have to.’ He sat up a bit. ‘Yeah,’ he said quietly and his eyes looked away and then came back. ‘Yeah,’ he said more firmly. ‘I suppose you’re right.’ ‘Just talk to me, like this.’ ‘I can’t do it on my own.’

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‘I know.’ And her fingers reached across the table towards his, touching the tips. She noticed the creases around his eyes and thought that perhaps age would suit him.

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I The bitumen road widened and where it began to curve away to the west, the vehicle slowed for the turnoff into town. Laura caught glimpses of rooftops between trees and flowering bougainvillea and everything was shaded from the sun in the east by two jagged-edged hills. John hadn’t spoken for the entire journey but now he asked where they wanted to be dropped off. Texas answered but she didn’t hear what he said. They passed square houses, pale green or grey, all mounted above the ground and in front of them were colourful gardens of frangipani and oleander, or there were yards of dirt with toys and broken bikes and cars that looked as though they wouldn’t start again. After several turns through gravel streets the vehicle stopped near a house with a wide palm out the front. Texas lifted their gear from the back of the vehicle. Carrying her 233

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backpack, she followed him up a couple of steps and a woman greeted them at the door. ‘Look who’s here,’ she said to someone else in the room. She smiled at Laura, adding: ‘I’m Billie, his cousin.’ ‘Hi, I’m Laura.’ ‘You belong to that yeller fella, eh?’ She laughed warmly. ‘Come inside and have a cup of tea.’ Laura followed. Billie continued: ‘See that lump over there, that’s my husband, Wal.’ To Laura’s left was a lounge room, and on a couch was the man Billie referred to. He looked up and nodded, a shinyfaced man with a stomach that rested on his lap. Texas went over and sat down beside him. A television was on without any sound. Billie was behind an island bench with shelves above it, filling the kettle with water at a sink against the wall. ‘Chuck all that stuff out the back,’ she said, noticing their gear. Laura sat at the table and Billie joined her with two mugs of tea. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her face was soft and round. ‘I saw Jimmy the other day,’ she called over to Texas. ‘He said that fella out there, that one you been working for, he’s no good.’ She paused. ‘And that old fella Irish. He’s gone. There was a bit of a funeral for him. In town. That’s right, eh Wal? Remember that old woman of his. Grace. Well there was a daughter that come up from Perth. Did you know he had a daughter?’ ‘He had plenty of them,’ said Wal, turning his head sideways towards the women at the table. ‘Remember, what was her

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name, Janey O’Brien, she was out of him. And they reckon there was a son too.’ ‘I didn’t think he had any children,’ said Laura. No one said anything. She felt her face heat up. ‘You been see your old mother?’ asked Billie. She was looking at Texas but he didn’t answer. Laura sipped her tea and glanced around the room. There was a photo of some children on the shelf beside the television. ‘They’re our kids, mine and Wal’s. The girl, she won a prize last week for a story she wrote about her nanna.’ ‘That’s great,’ said Laura. ‘Where are they now?’ ‘At school, the little buggers. They go early when it gets hot.’ Texas stood up. Wal lifted himself out of the chair. He was a big man, as tall as Texas. ‘Just going into town,’ he said. Laura glanced quickly at Texas. ‘Stay there and finish your tea,’ said Billie, adding, ‘They won’t be long.’ Laura clasped her cup tightly. She met his eyes and they reassured her and it was the first time since the cattle smash that he looked like the person she knew. ‘Back soon eh,’ he said, placing his hat on his head before he followed Wal out the door. ‘Where you from then?’ asked Billie, her attention shifting back to Laura. ‘England, well London actually.’ ‘You’re a long way from home.’ ‘Yes.’

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She suddenly felt alone and missed the people who knew her, like her sister, even though they didn’t always get along. The feeling only happened when Texas wasn’t around and she regretted not insisting that she go with him. ‘You finish that cup?’ Billie reached out for both their mugs and got up from the table and with one hand she hitched down the hem of her dress. ‘We’ll close up all them blinds, keep out the heat. Might get rain soon. Bloody hot enough.’ They lowered heavy canvas over the windows and the dim light seemed to make it a little cooler. ‘Now I gotta be up at the school for a bit. To help out you know. You’ll be all right here. They won’t be long those fellas. He’s just getting the money for Wal. Make yourself comfortable over there.’ The front door closed and she went across to the couch that had black vinyl arms and a seat which was upholstered in a coarse green and yellow tartan. She spread out and it felt good to be motionless and to not have to hold her body up in the heat. Every now and then she heard the sound of a vehicle, and occasionally kids playing and dogs barking. On the television screen a woman silently held up the letter B. She remembered there was no television out on the station and thought of Susannah’s children, growing up without it. She might have slept a little because she started when the front door opened. She sat up quickly, and Texas stepped around the door, followed by Wal, carrying a carton of beer.

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‘The old woman’s gone out,’ said Wal as he settled on the chair to the left of the couch. Texas sat down and reached over and squeezed her leg behind the knees. She leapt up, laughing, crying: ‘You know I hate that.’ He handed her a beer and she settled into the couch beside him. Wal walked over to the television. ‘Remember when he says, “Out here a man settles his own problems,” it’s in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, I got it the other day.’ ‘So how many bloody John Wayne films is that?’ asked Texas. ‘Too many, the old girl reckons,’ said Wal with a grin as he sat down again. The video started playing without any sound. ‘Wal used to have his own contracting turnout,’ Texas was speaking to Laura. ‘Had a horse plant and a truck and all that stunt.’ ‘You did a bit a bull catching with me that time over in that tableland country. Remember? We got a good number of bulls out of there.’ ‘You’re not doing it any more?’ she said. ‘Busted me back. Working for main roads now. When I can.’ Horses and riders flashed across the screen in black and white. Texas and Wal reminisced about work and the people they knew. She heard some of it and other times she watched the film. Every now and then she found it hard to breathe and it seemed that time had stopped and there was no way of knowing what life was like outside this place that was all closed

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up from the heat. A bright rectangle of light appeared in the doorway and all three of them turned towards it. A boy burst in, about five years old, and he was followed by an older girl and another boy. Billie came in behind them carrying their school bags. She switched on a light and they all blinked. ‘Bloody hot out there,’ she said. ‘Stop it you kids.’ They were fighting in the kitchen and the younger one was crying. ‘Texas, you getting my old man drunk? He got things to do, haven’t you Wal. That bloody drink, it’ll be the end.’ ‘We’re going into town,’ said Texas. When he stood up Laura followed, using the back of the chair for support. ‘You not taking Wal with you,’ said Billie. Texas had his arm around Laura at the doorway and she turned back towards them and said: ‘Bye.’ They stepped into a furnace and walked along the street and cloud edged the sun and she remembered. ‘You forgot your hat.’ Realising they’d left all their gear behind. ‘I got money,’ he said. He drew his arm around her tighter and pulled her face into his, kissing her mouth. Thunder sounded in the distance like a wave breaking and she moved away from him and looked up. A dark ledge of cloud sat above light, white shapes and overhead there were wisps of herringbone that were tinted green and pink. Flies whined in her ears and her pulse pumped densely. They came out onto a road with shops and across the road there was a strip of grass and on the other side of the grass

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was the pub which she recognised as the place where the bus had stopped all those months ago. It might have been years. There were people beneath a fig tree and heads leant towards other heads, and arms gestured. She was glad to sit down but there was no escape, the air oppressed and she wondered what it was like to drown. Someone passed a bottle wrapped in brown paper. Her eyes watered and she was surprised there was any moisture left in her body. A woman said something angrily in a language she didn’t understand. The others ignored her. She watched a cloud form into a lumpy snowman, all softness and curves, and at its base, hardness and darkness, and occasionally lightning flashed across it. The rumbles grew louder, and even though she knew thunder could be explained by science, its sound was chaotic and unexpected. Leaves shivered in the shock of it and birds flew out of the tree. She leant towards Texas and he seemed surprised to see her. He pulled her in close and he couldn’t have realised he was hurting her. ‘I can’t do this,’ she said. ‘It’s too hot.’ Pulling away. He put his hand to her face and his eyes seemed sad, or perhaps he was drunk. ‘What about the pub, can we go there?’ she asked desperately. ‘Or back to Billie and Wal’s?’ She pushed open the door of the front bar as rain fell in large steaming drops, noisily hitting the scorched earth and the dry leaf litter. Texas tripped on the step behind her. A few people glanced up and she could breathe again, the refrigerated air. The barmaid took their order without looking at them. It made her think she might have been invisible. The woman placed the

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two amber-coloured drinks on the bar and condensation slid down the sides of the glass. When Texas pulled out a handful of money, she realised she didn’t have any. They settled on a pair of metal stools facing each other. A couple of older men were sitting further along the bar and there were small groups of people around tables. The windows behind were covered in wire mesh and the floor was concrete. ‘Texas,’ she said. ‘Where are we staying?’ A woman went over to the jukebox and put on a song. Laura recognised the words. Texas drained his beer. ‘We could get a room in the motel,’ she added. ‘Have a game of pool eh?’ She brought the beer to her mouth and saw through the glass. They leant over the green table to hit the ball and it was like a raft, keeping them afloat, focusing their thoughts, their conversation, and it provided them with a reason to continue. People moved in around them. There was a woman talking to Texas. He handed her money and she met Laura’s eyes and climbed on the stool beside her, introducing herself as Maisie, his sister. Maisie’s husband joined them; he was much older than her and Laura was reminded of Irish. More people gathered. Smoke rose and so did people’s voices, sometimes in argument, and language was like liquid, coalescing into continuous sound. Maisie and Texas had the same lean face but she was shorter. ‘You’re my sister now,’ she said and her voice reached Laura through the noise and the haze.

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Maisie admired the silver bracelet Laura wore and gave her the ring from her finger. Laura took off her bracelet, happy with the exchange. Her only memory of leaving the pub was stepping into air that steamed with heat and seeing a large yellow moon like a ship’s porthole sitting on top of the hills. She woke sweating, the light was bright and she lifted her head slowly from a mound of blankets, smelling dog shit and eucalyptus smoke. Treetops flickered blindingly. She pulled herself up and Texas stirred a little. There were beads of sweat below the line of his hair. She pushed away the warm cans of beer they hadn’t got to drink. A few metres away there was a canvas shelter held up by timber posts and it was between a caravan and an old Bedford truck. A man bare to the waist was standing at the front wheel arch of the truck where a small transistor radio was perched; he was attempting to tune it into a station. Static and distorted music, then song and more static. He was standing sideways and a woman spoke and she could make out the shape of someone sitting in a chair beneath the shelter. He replied in the same sharp language. He seemed to give up on the radio because he left it and walked in under the shade. ‘Texas,’ she said, her hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her and frowned and moved his lips over his teeth. They were camped under a tree beside a brown station wagon and a rusty upturned Morris. There were others sleeping on the ground around them like misshapen lumps of fabric. And through the trees and amongst lifeless grass and empty bottles and cans and paper rubbish were other camps, more

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vehicles and shelters, and people passed through bush as flashes of colour. The distant sound of lilting voices weaved in and out and was scored by the yapping of dogs. Her mouth was dry and her head ached. She needed to go to the toilet. Texas pulled himself up and he sat with his knees bent and his arms holding them for support. ‘Is there any water?’ she asked. She was wearing the same shorts and singlet from yesterday and she wanted desperately to retrieve her things from Billie’s place. ‘Look through those trees, there’s the block. There’s a tap there,’ he said. ‘Are we going to Billie and Wal’s later?’ she asked. ‘Yeah might be.’ ‘But what about our stuff?’ ‘Be all right. See that old woman, that’s my mother, Betty, and Sam, he’s my stepfather.’ He stood up and brushed the dust from his jeans. His shirt was open and it hung loosely and his dark curly hair was flattened at the back of his head. She followed him and stood under the canvas as he told the old people her name. They nodded. The woman, his mother, said something she didn’t understand. Texas laughed. ‘She said you the same as that gin you buy in a bottle. You know, white gin.’ Laura smiled, not sure what he meant. She followed the trail of flattened grass behind the car, and the sand was still baking even after the night and the small amount of rain. There were

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no clouds and the bush seemed as tired of the relentless heat as she was. Dogs came to sniff her and children called out. She wondered at their energy. There were people, perhaps five or six, around the small shed-like structure that was erected on concrete. It was about four metres long and two metres wide and inside was a toilet and a big steel basin. A woman, washing a child, smiled. ‘That toilet don’t work,’ she told her. But Laura could tell from the smell. ‘Is there another one?’ she asked. The woman looked away. Laura drank from the outside tap and filled the billy and nodded hello to the people who were watching. When she returned to the camp the station wagon had gone and Texas had started a small fire for the water. He was sitting in the dirt with three other men; one of them was Jimmy. She didn’t want to stay there. She couldn’t in that heat. It was only going to get worse. The sun hadn’t even risen above the hills. ‘Let’s go into town,’ she said. ‘Yeah, maybe later,’ said Texas. ‘How far is it?’ He didn’t answer. ‘How far is it, Jimmy?’ She felt like screaming. ‘Little way longa that track, and then that road and then sun-up way,’ he said and pointed. Texas squinted at her and he tried to pull her closer but she resisted, stepping back, away from him. He followed her to the broken vehicle. She faced him. ‘What is this place?’

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He stared into the distance. ‘My family’s camp.’ ‘This is where they live?’ He didn’t reply for a moment. ‘They’re going to build a house for this mob,’ he gestured with his head towards the old man and woman. ‘Government fella, he come out here. Been saying that for a long long time.’ His expression changed in a way she hadn’t seen before and she didn’t understand what it meant. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked as she turned around. ‘I need to . . . I don’t know. I need to be somewhere else.’ She pushed her hair back from her face, hot and uncomfortable. There was no sign of the grog in his eyes but she noticed the can in his hand. ‘Why do we have to drink all the time?’ ‘Not every time. Just holiday time eh.’ He brought the can of beer up to his mouth and then he smiled and she moved to be near him and with his other hand he brought her closer and she was reassured by the strength of his body. ‘I stay here with these fellas and I come to town later.’ ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I don’t have any money.’ He pulled a handful of notes from his pocket. It took about twenty minutes to walk into the main street. There weren’t many people around at that hour of the day, or perhaps it was like that all the time. She still wasn’t used to the vast expanse of distances that seemed inhabited by so few. The bricks from the buildings gave off heat but their solidness was reassuring. She walked around the block, up and down the

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two streets where most of the shops were located, and looked in at the clothing hanging in the windows. Perhaps it was only the tiredness that made her feel dislocated; as though in some way her access to this place, these businesses, was restricted. A few shops had airconditioning, like the chemist, and she stayed in there for as long as she could without buying anything. She started to worry about what would happen next. Would he come into town to find her? She bought food from the deli and sat in the shade of the shop awning to eat. A woman she remembered from the pub walked by. ‘That Texas look after you eh,’ she shouted. ‘Good fella Texas.’ A couple of men dressed in khaki shirts and shorts climbed out of a Toyota and slowly ambled past. She pretended not to notice their blatant gazes, their familiar remarks. She stared down the street, willing him to walk around the corner. By the time she finished her drink and looked up again, he was there with Maisie’s husband, Eric. His feet were bare, his shirt unbuttoned, and under one arm he carried a carton of beer. ‘Go out to Eric’s eh. He got some home brew.’ They drove out to Eric’s block in the back of his Toyota. Maisie and another woman called Jill sat in the front with Eric. His place was on the outskirts of town, near where water had been diverted for irrigation, and on either side of the road, against the dark red dirt, were bright rectangles of green, as green as the grass in the south of England. He had a shed and a caravan and lots of pieces of broken machinery. Eric was a welder and he recycled discarded parts into obscure inventions that apparently made it easier to look after mills and bores.

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They sat in the gap between the shed and the caravan. Eric called it his breezeway and they sampled his home brew and drank beer from the carton they had brought with them. Laura listened to the stories of people and places she didn’t know and watched the light on the ground change shape with the angle of the sun. Just before nightfall, Laura found herself with Texas in the park near the pub. It was the twilight time when, after drinking all day, her mind was still able to assemble an image or two to make sense of her surroundings. She had an idea and she held Texas’s arm, leading him towards the motel. When they reached the office, he wouldn’t go any further. She told him to wait for her. And when she came back with the key, he pulled her clumsily towards him. They lay on top of the bed and the airconditioner was loud. He was asleep almost immediately and she held on to him tightly. In the morning the motel room door was open and there was no one beside her. She sat up, rubbing her arms and legs. The airconditioner was on high. It was so cold, she was almost shivering. Everything was brown. The carpet, the bedspread and the furniture. She went into the bathroom and washed her face and rinsed her mouth and re-tied her ponytail. The reflection in the mirror stared blankly back. She stepped outside into the heat and past the cleaning trolley at the other end of the building. He was in the park and when he saw her he stood up, smiling broadly. ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ she asked. ‘Too bloody cold.’

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‘Shit.’ ‘What’s the matter?’ She didn’t know where to begin. He placed his arm over her shoulder. She shrugged it off. ‘Don’t, it’s too hot.’ ‘Go back to the camp eh?’ Her head was against his chest and she felt him breathe. ‘All right,’ she said, realising that if she was to be with him, there was nowhere else to go.

II Days were punctuated by the appearance of beer and liquor in brown bottles with yellow or red and white labels. Thick wet air wrapped around them. She stopped resisting and it seeped into her being. Sometimes there was a fight or someone said something in anger and it broke through the cloud, for a moment. Texas leaning in to kiss her mouth, holding her there without touching the rest of her body. Empty cans and bottles falling, breaking, broken and crushed beside them. People, their relations, borrowed money from Texas and because she’d been wearing the same clothes for days, she borrowed a dress from Jill, who had a baby daughter. When Jill didn’t come back to the camp one night, Laura tried to comfort the child but she couldn’t and so she gave her to Betty. Sometimes she washed at the block but other times she forgot. One of her flip-flops

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broke and they took the station wagon into town to buy more and everyone came with them, including the old woman with whom she’d sat under a tree and shared a flagon; the woman whose family was shot, brothers and sisters and cousins and aunties and uncles, when they walked through the bush at holiday time, that caused a big mob of cattle to rush, cattle from a long way, heading for the meatworks. All of them people dead and she a little girl, hiding behind that ant bed. Texas bought ten pairs of thongs and they all climbed back in the car and drove out to where water gushed from a concrete wall and ran over rocks and the banks smelt of dead fish. Barramundi fishing place. A friend called Harry told her about the man who fell in and when they found him months later he was wrapped in fishing line and brightly coloured lures. They swam in flat dark water beside a road called the crossing and she was told there might be crocodiles and, learning to understand what was meant, she knew it wasn’t safe. She and Texas floated together. Sometimes the glaze slipped from his eyes but it was less and less often. They camped in the car by the river, only the two of them, and she drew the shape of his body with her hands, wanting it to be true, but knowing in a small, sad corner of her mind that it was ending, that she was loving him from a distance. In the middle of the night Texas woke up. He heard noises. Might be ghosts, or the old people, he said. They drove out of there in the dark and the feeling of fear was more real than anything else. One morning she returned from using the bathroom in the pub to where he was sitting under a tree in the middle of town.

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They’d been drinking solidly for five days. His shirt was unbuttoned and dirty and he was unshaven. ‘Where you been? You go with some other fella?’ His eyes were unrecognisable. ‘I went to the toilet,’ she said. His expression changed and he seemed confused, as though he didn’t know who she was, and then he turned towards a group of people walking in their direction. ‘That fella owe me a carton,’ he said and he tried to stand up. She looked down at her hands and the dirt under her nails. ‘I want to stop this,’ she muttered. She didn’t know whether he heard but he stayed where he was. ‘Let’s go somewhere else. We could go to Billie’s and get our things and go to another town. Get out of here, get out of this place. Just you and me together.’ Where there wouldn’t be so many relations. People to drink with. That was what she meant. She was tired of sharing him with all these people. He reached for her hands and pulled them roughly towards him and she longed for the time when, lying together, he would gently stroke her skin. ‘Ow, you bit me,’ she said, touching her lip, looking at her fingers for evidence of blood. She knew he didn’t mean to do it. She stared at him, wanting to cry, but it was as though everything on the inside had been dried up by the grog. His hand trembled when he touched her face. Tracing the outline of her chin with his finger. She noticed over his shoulder that the group was getting closer. He stood

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up, and was walking unsteadily towards the people, his friends and relations who had settled in the grass a short distance away, perhaps expecting that she would follow. When she walked in the other direction, she realised she wasn’t even sure any more that he would miss her.

III Wind blew dustily and gusted in stark, white light that leached colour from the dirt, the grass and the trees. Buildings and roads shimmered. She took small steps, her clothes seeming tighter as though her body was swollen. She was so far from home. Women and men stood side by side at the counter of the service station, the heat taking away the energy to communicate. Finding some change in her pocket, she bought an orange juice and a sandwich, unable to remember the last time she ate. She loitered in the aisle of the store, the airconditioning bringing some relief, hoping it would help to clear her mind. ‘What are you doing?’ It was the woman from behind the counter. Laura couldn’t think for a moment. She didn’t know what to say, pushing her hair away from her face, looking down at her feet. ‘Who are you?’ the woman demanded. ‘What do you want?’ ‘I’m from England,’ Laura mumbled. ‘I’ve lost . . .’ ‘You need to go to the police station.’

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The woman’s face was disapproving, disgusted even. Laura wanted to tell her that she was no different from her, it was just that she’d lost everything, but the words wouldn’t come out and she was ashamed. She sat at an outdoor table in the shade. Eyes aching with tiredness. If only she could remember where Billie and Wal lived, how many streets they’d walked. Her body yielded to the temperature. As long as she didn’t move, the dense beat of her heart was steady. But she had to move, she couldn’t sit there all day. The youth hostel: they would know her there perhaps. But then how would she pay for anything? She needed her passport to take to the bank. People walked in and out of the doors. She could see the outline of the woman through the glass. She had to move on. She didn’t want to go to the police. It wasn’t as if anything had been stolen. She kept to the shaded side of the street, thinking only about the things that belonged to her, turning left into the main street. There was a four-by-four angle-parked in front of the co-op. It looked like the station vehicle but there were vehicles like that everywhere. If it was John, she didn’t want to be seen. She waited under a gum tree. Leaf shadows moved over her arms as a dry wind flicked them about. Clouds were building up again and rolling towards the sun. ‘Susannah.’ The manager’s wife looked up as she carried a box of groceries towards the car. A woman with another box was following. ‘Laura, is that you? What are you doing here?’ ‘The jillaroo?’ asked the other woman as she placed the box in the back of the vehicle.

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Susannah threw the woman a look of dislike and it sent her back into the co-op. ‘Give us a hand with these boxes. Won’t take a minute. The boys are just in there.’ Susannah gestured with her head towards the shop but her eyes were on Laura. ‘Tell me what’s been happening. I thought you might have gone by now.’ Laura picked up the last box from beside the door as Susannah put the children in the car. She looked across at Laura. ‘Do you want to get in?’ Laura nodded. She climbed in the front seat and noticed her shorts. They were filthy. She had washed them at the camp, she just couldn’t remember when. She looked out the side window along the street to the park where he might be. Susannah was in the driver’s seat. The boys were excited to see her, repeating her name over and over, until their mother told them to be quiet. ‘What do you want me to do?’ Laura glanced quickly at her and then away, the sadness expanding like something solid, and it made it difficult to breathe, to find her voice. ‘I’m sorry.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I left all my things at a friend’s place. I can’t find where it is.’ ‘Sure. Do you want me to drive around and we can look for the house?’ ‘That’d be great,’ she said, facing the passenger window, not wanting Susannah to see her desperation, realising how lucky she was to be rescued.

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They drove from one end of the street to the other. And then into another street and all the gravel roads looked the same. Susannah wasn’t saying anything and Laura thought she might be irritated. ‘This street, maybe,’ said Laura, scanning quickly, seeing a large palm. ‘There I think.’ She recognised the house and her voice was stronger. ‘Yes, that’s it.’ She managed a small, grateful smile and climbed out of the car. ‘I’ll wait here,’ said Susannah. ‘Thanks.’ She tapped on the front door, waiting, pushing away the thought that there might not be anyone home. Billie opened the door, and looked at her and then across at Susannah in the vehicle. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Billie, it’s Laura. I’ve just come to get my things.’ Billie stood in the doorway for a moment. Unsmiling. ‘Where’s Texas?’ ‘He’s in town with Maisie.’ Billie turned, speaking over her shoulder. ‘Come in and close the door, keep out the heat.’ Laura followed her through the kitchen, glancing guiltily around the room, relieved that no one else was there. Her pack lay on its side where she had left it, beside Texas’s swag, and when she saw his things, his hat, she ached for him. She picked up the pack and slung it over her shoulder. She swallowed noisily. Billie looked at her.

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‘You going home now?’ Laura nodded, her eyes watering, walking quickly towards the door. ‘Thanks,’ she managed to get out, before she couldn’t talk any more.

IV Susannah saw the door open and Laura appeared carrying a backpack. The door closed behind her and she seemed to walk a little unsteadily towards the vehicle. When she reached the window Susannah could see that her face was wet. ‘Just put it in the back there,’ she called out to her. She reached over towards the glove box, placing the travel pack of tissues on the dashboard. Laura opened the door. When she’d settled into her seat Susannah pointed them out. ‘Thanks.’ ‘Mummy, why’s Laura crying? Has she done a bad thing?’ ‘Shush. Laura’s sad, you need to be quiet. You all right?’ asked Susannah as she started the car. Laura nodded almost indiscernibly. ‘Do you want to go and get something to eat? Get a drink?’ Laura sighed. ‘I need to go to the bank.’ ‘That’s okay. I’ve got some money. We’ll sort it out later.’ Susannah drove slowly down the street, glancing occasionally at the girl in the passenger seat. Her hair was unkempt and

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her shoulder marked by dirt. She smelt of stale grog. Susannah couldn’t help but feel responsible for her. She couldn’t make up her mind whether Laura was brave or foolish. Perhaps she was neither. Susannah switched off the ignition. Laura blew her nose and looked up through the windscreen at the flat-roofed building with a brown timber fence attached to one side. The pods from a golden rain tree clattered in the breeze. ‘Where are we?’ ‘The tavern. I thought I might get the kids something to eat where there’s airconditioning.’ They pushed open the double doors. Susannah walked ahead, buoyed by the blast of cold air. The contrast between the temperature inside and out was extraordinary and she wondered how she’d managed to cope with the heat. She wanted to ask Laura where she’d been this past week and what had happened. She hoped it was nothing terrible, although she couldn’t be sure from the way Laura looked. She didn’t know where Texas lived when he wasn’t working. She didn’t know anything about him, other than what Irish had told her. ‘Do you want any food?’ she asked Laura. Laura shook her head. Susannah ordered chips for the children and drinks for them all and returned to the table with Laura sitting at one end and the boys clambering over each other, reaching for the sugar sachets. ‘They’ll know all about it when they find the pepper,’ said Susannah. Their eyes met and Laura smiled weakly. ‘You probably think I’m an idiot,’ she said after a while.

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‘No, that’s not what I think at all,’ said Susannah, although it was probably closer to the truth than anything else, and then she asked, ‘So it’s all over?’ Laura nodded. ‘I didn’t tell him. I couldn’t. I just walked away.’ ‘It’s probably for the best.’ Susannah realised she sounded like her mother. ‘I mean, what else could you do? You were going to have to leave sometime. I guess it would’ve been harder if you’d talked about it.’ ‘We were always drunk. There was nothing else to do.’ Susannah tried to look nonchalant but she felt a slight stab of disapproval. Really, what was Laura thinking? ‘And then he changed. It was so different in town,’ Laura added. The woman brought their order to the table and took away the mess the boys had made. Susannah couldn’t think of anything to say. She helped the children open the tomato sauce sachets. ‘This place looks more like a pub in England,’ said Laura. ‘With the dark wood and the carpet.’ ‘Does it?’ said Susannah absently, watching the children, resigned to the moment approaching when things spiralled out of control. ‘I feel like I’m in a parallel world. I can’t get used to it. The pub, where I was, it’s only a street away.’ ‘Yeah, right,’ said Susannah. ‘Stop that. There’ll be no chips if you don’t sit properly.’ She looked across at Laura. ‘They’ve got a dress code here.’ She reached for the food and glanced back. ‘So are you going to stay in town? What are you going to do?’

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‘Oh, no, I can’t stay here. I think there’s a bus that comes in the evening. I’ve got to go to the bank.’ Laura hesitated and looked towards the doors. ‘I don’t want to see him. I don’t know what he’s thinking. I don’t want him to be hurt.’ ‘Well of course he’s going to be hurt. But you know there’s always next season. He’ll get over it.’ When she saw the expression on Laura’s face, she said quickly, ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that you weren’t . . . um . . . important to him.’ ‘I hope he’s all right.’ ‘He’s probably thinking the same thing about you,’ said Susannah, although she did wonder what he felt about it all. The ending was predictable but not because of Texas. Susannah had always thought their relationship was like one of those holiday romances she’d heard about from her friends. But Susannah was surprised Laura had stayed as long as she had. ‘I need to get organised,’ said Laura. ‘Perhaps you should have a wash first.’ She meant it kindly but Laura blushed and then her expression hardened. ‘Look, I better get going.’ She rose out of her seat. ‘Laura, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to sound like that. I just thought there’re rooms out the back here and they might let you use the shower . . . well, you don’t want to bump into him. I’ve done everything I need to in town . . . I can wait until the bus comes . . . If you want.’ Susannah wasn’t sure why she cared so much. Perhaps she wanted to see what it was like to leave.

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Laura was still for a moment. Then she sat down and, without looking at Susannah, she said in a small, tight voice, ‘I would like that. Thank you.’ The tavern manager had wanted some money for the use of the shower and Susannah paid it while Laura went to the car to get her things. Then they were driving around town again and Susannah noticed the way Laura looked in the other direction when they passed groups of Aboriginal people in the street or in the park near the trees. Susannah hadn’t thought about it before but she wondered where they lived and why they were there, sitting in groups or standing around in the heat. Had Laura been there? She couldn’t imagine what it must have been like. They went to the bank and then to the post office to find out about the bus. Laura climbed back in the vehicle. ‘It leaves at five out the front of the pub.’ Susannah glanced at her watch. It was only one o’clock. ‘We could go out to the dam. They reckon everyone should see that before they go.’ ‘Okay,’ said Laura but without much enthusiasm. ‘It’ll kill some time anyway,’ added Susannah, and she put the vehicle into reverse. They drove out of town as if they were driving back to the station. Susannah had passed the sign that marked the turnoff many times before. But even though she knew this section of the road well and the shape of the hills had become familiar, it always felt as though she was entering another country. ‘I feel so guilty,’ said Laura.

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Susannah glanced at her after they turned off onto the narrow gravel road. ‘You don’t need to feel guilty. You’re from England. You’re just passing through.’ ‘I don’t know whether to be insulted or reassured.’ Laura pressed her lips together. ‘It wasn’t meant to be insulting,’ said Susannah, trying to find a kinder tone. She stared into the country, feeling Laura’s eyes on her as she steered the vehicle along the skinny strip of dirt that wound around the side of a hill. Its edges were sharp and rocky and large boulders seemed mounted at impossible angles. ‘The thing is, I’ve always thought of myself as a country girl but I’m not sure what that means any more.’ What was she trying to tell Laura? Was there any point in explaining herself when Laura would be gone very soon? She could tell her that to know a place was to learn how the past might’ve shaped the present. Then perhaps you could avoid being trapped by other people’s thoughts and ideas. But it was also impossible to know a place. It was like trying to know everything about a person. She didn’t doubt that Laura loved Texas. She had nothing to tell Laura. She was still trying to work it out for herself. They drove on, down gullies and up again. More hills appeared, irregular in shape, and vegetation grew thinly and patchily like an adolescent growing his first beard. The vehicle climbed a long hill and followed a curve in the road and then they came out onto the lookout, and water, metal grey and flat like a mirror, lay across the earth as far as the eye could see, interrupted by hills and rocky outcrops transformed into

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islands, pale vertical lines at their base, marking the variation in water level. ‘Wow, this is amazing,’ said Laura. ‘It covers a lot of country,’ said Susannah. She turned off the engine. It was impressive, perhaps because it was so unexpected. The way you came upon it; it was like a great secret suddenly revealed, although what you saw was only the surface and there was no indication of depth. She looked over her shoulder. Both boys had fallen asleep. She wound down the windows and the hot thick air enveloped them. Above the water lightning sparked in sheets and the occasional spear of light shot from a ridge of dark cloud. Ollie started to moan. He complained of the heat and it woke Ned. Susannah turned the engine on again. ‘We could get an ice cream.’ Susannah drove on to a building beside a caravan park. A woman was locking the door of the kiosk. Susannah turned to Laura. ‘We better get going. It looks like it’s going to rain.’ Water splattered the windscreen in big drops and the wipers worked to remove them intermittently. The country was fading in the grey light. Trees were dark, irregular shapes that twisted out of the landscape. Laura seemed deep in thought. Perhaps in her mind she had already left. The rain was getting heavier and Susannah slowed down to negotiate the slippery wet road. Suddenly it became cooler and easier to breathe. The boys were chatting quietly to themselves. ‘What will you do?’

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Susannah was startled by Laura’s question. She didn’t answer for a moment. ‘Things have changed a bit since you left.’ She glanced in the rear-vision mirror as though to check on the boys. ‘We’ve worked out a few things. I’m going to be more involved with what John’s doing. I don’t know whether I want to do any mustering but at least I get to know what’s going on and we’re getting someone to help look after the children.’ Perhaps none of it would have happened if Laura hadn’t worked on the place. ‘Really, I’m pleased for you,’ said Laura. ‘I thought you might leave.’ ‘No,’ she smiled. ‘I’m not leaving.’

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Acknowledgements Acknowledgements

This story takes place in the Kimberley region of Western Australia and although some features of the country I describe may be familiar to some people, it was not my intention to locate it on any particular station. Nor is any character based on any person, living or dead. However, Irish’s yarn, which begins on page 38, was inspired by a true event that was told to Bruce Shaw by Jack Sullivan and recorded in Banggaiyerri: The Story of Jack Sullivan, pages 70–74. Another version of that story is referred to by John on page 78 and by Texas on page 174. Other accounts of the same event involving a pastoralist called Jack Kelly and an Aboriginal man named Major who lived in the East Kimberley in the early 1900s are found in the 263

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same Bruce Shaw publication, pages 215–219, and in Mary Durack’s Sons in the Saddle, pages 195–197. In most cases I have attempted to reproduce the idiosyncratic use of language in that area from my own experience in the Kimberley as a jillaroo and journalist, but I have also consulted Bruce Shaw’s Banggaiyerri: The Story of Jack Sullivan. I am grateful to Kevin Shaw for sharing with me his knowledge of the Kimberley and the terms ‘fifty-fifty’, page 168; ‘Toyota and footwalking road’, page 213; and the story of the ‘frontier men’, page 224. Chapter titles are taken from the titles of Westerns published by Cleveland Publishing Company, Brookvale, NSW, with the exception of Men fell prey to her angel eyes and her killing ways, which was the title of a WB Longley Western, Paperjacks, Toronto, Canada. I am also grateful to Cleveland Publishing for permission to use the following extracts. The extract on page 9 is from page 7 of Violent Sundown by Kirk Hamilton, Cleveland Publishing, and the extract on page 193 is from page 97 of Red River Crossing by Brett Iverson, Cleveland Publishing. The Western Susannah reads on pages 225–229 is an abridged version of By Sundown by Ben Jefferson, Cleveland Publishing. Lyrics from ‘God bless Robert E Lee’ by Borchers & Vickery on page 206, published by Sony/ATV Music Publishing, are used with permission by Sony/ATV Music Publishing (Australia) Pty Limited. The reference to a cookbook on page 107 and the recipe on page 113 are from The CWA Cookery Book and Household Hints, 1936, King Street, Perth.

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This book was written in part during two residencies, one at the University of Western Australia through the Westerly Centre and the other at Varuna, The Writers House, through the CAL Second Book Project. I would like to thank the many people who made this book possible. They are Janine Milne, Wendy and Dave Thornbury, Gemma and Jamie Laurisson, Kevin Shaw, Alasdair Cooke, Pete Harold, Ash Bosworth, Helen Renshaw, Antonia Wise and Peter Bishop. I also thank those who had a direct involvement in the developing manuscript: my family including Jamie Venerys, Ian and Jan Hay, Lisa Revelins, Robert Purdew and Nancy Hay; Brenda Walker who has offered advice and encouragement throughout the project; and the very professional team at Allen & Unwin, in particular Annette Barlow, Catherine Milne, Clara Finlay and Julia Stiles.

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