Out of Alice (13 page)

Long before they reached the Forty Mile block Sara saw a column of dust rising above the mulga and pointed. ‘What's that up ahead?'

‘Vehicle coming,' Len said. ‘Probably the mail.'

‘Of course. It's Friday.'

‘Shoulda brought the mailbag with us,' Jack said. ‘I never gave it a thought.'

The Toyota was in sight now and slowing as it saw them. Len pulled over to one side and Jack hastily wound his window up as Harry approached, the dust cloud catching them both up. Once it had settled, the men got out and Sara followed, knowing it would be cooler in the mulga shade than in the cab of the vehicle.

Harry nodded at them. ‘G'day, Len, Jack, Sara. How's it going?' He had a passenger, a tall youngster who looked scarcely out of his teens. He stood uncertainly in the background while the men gathered to talk and when Sara took pity on him and asked him his name, he blushed. The youth pushed back a felt hat to disclose fair hair and an open face where one or two acne spots still lingered.

‘I'm Nick.' He was clutching a camera and was togged out like the other men, but in newer clothes. He offered his hand. ‘Are you from round here, er, Miss?'

Sara shook it, reflecting that his skin was nearly as pale as her own. ‘Sara Blake. I'm the governess at Redhill. And you? Where are you going?'

‘Walkervale National Park.' He sounded grateful for the attention, his gaze lingering admiringly upon her. ‘I'm gonna help build a fence there.'

‘Really? Have you done that sort of work before?'

He didn't reply. She prompted, ‘Nick?' and he blushed fierily again.

‘Oh, sorry. I just – well, no, but it's a job.' He hefted his camera. ‘And I hope it'll help my real work. I'm training to be a photo­grapher. I wanna get on a paper, see, be their regular photographer, but you've got to have, like, a portfolio first. So the editor knows you can deliver the goods, see? I was stuck in Stepney, nothing but buildings and street pics there. Not my scene. I want the wild stuff, you know? Big pics. Nature, animals, storms, that sort of thing, so, well, here I am.' He smiled in uncomplicated pleasure and leant confidentially towards her, jerking his head at the three men. ‘You reckon those blokes'd let me take their pictures?'

Sara shrugged. ‘You could ask.' She nodded at the camera. ‘Have you had many of your photos published?'

‘I won a competition last year,' he disclosed proudly. ‘They printed that one. And about a month later I was down at the port the day that yacht pitch poled. You mighta heard about it? Bit of luck really. I already had the long lens on and the tripod set up. Sheer fluke, but lotsa great pics happen 'cause you're on the spot. I was trying for a shot of the seabirds over the breakers and caught her just as she dug in and flipped. It made the front page. That's when I thought about getting on the staff . . .' He paused for breath.

‘I was wondering, Miss, er, Sara, if I could get a coupla shots of you? Would you mind? It'd be great – you and the sky and the trees. I like shooting black and white for portraits, but yours should have colour. I'd send you a copy, of course.'

He reminded Sara forcefully of a pup, a gangly deerhound, perhaps. He was plainly smitten but she'd likely never see him again, so where was the harm in a photo? She smiled for him while he clicked away, asking her to turn or lift her chin while he muttered fervently behind the camera.

‘Beautiful! Oh, man, the light! Now turn a bit to the right. Stop! That's it, that's perfect. And smile . . . Thanks, thanks a lot. They'll be the best pics I ever take.'

‘I hope not,' she said gently. ‘Look, the men are making a move, best ask them now. And in a year or two, Nick, I'll be watching out for your work.'

He ducked his head, looking absurdly pleased. ‘Thanks. If it works out I might even get overseas. That'd be great, wouldn't it?' He flushed when she smiled at his enthusiasm, and capped the camera, then had to remove it again to snap a couple of shots of the two station men, then one of Harry leaning against the mail truck, before they all climbed back into their respective vehicles and departed.

‘Well, you certainly made a hit with the kid,' Jack said as they drove on then, echoing her own thought. ‘For a minute there I thought he was gonna roll over so you could rub his tummy.'

‘He's young, that's all. He said he's going out to the national park to build a fence. Why would they have paddocks in a park?'

‘Doesn't have to be a paddock,' Len said.

‘What, then?'

Jack shrugged. ‘Could be anything. Fencing in a parking compound, stringing cables to keep the tourists where they want 'em, enlarging the garden at the ranger station. Something small any road.'

‘Because?'

‘The kid's casual labour, so the work force will probably be just him and Colin. They'd hire a contractor for a real job.'

It made sense, Sara thought, impressed anew by the way these bushmen could weave a probable story from the merest threads of fact picked up from a few sentences.

She smiled. ‘You're just jealous they didn't get you.'

He snorted. ‘Fat chance. The government makes a great boss. Muck you around for a month before you can start, then wait another three to get paid. I'd sooner chew nails.'

Sara was still laughing at his vehemence when Len slowed the vehicle and swung off the road onto the open plain, heading for the drilling truck beneath its towering derrick.

The driller's name was Sean. He wore a scruffy beard and filthy clothes, and his mate, a midget-sized man called Terry, looked no cleaner. A camp trailer, shrouded in red bull-dust, stood a little to one side, its door open, a heap of miscellaneous objects including boots and tools piled near the foot of its steps. A thin aerial swooped down from the top of the derrick but if the radio was on, she couldn't hear it for the plant that was already working. Grimacing, she covered her ears, waiting in the Toyota's shade as the two men walked across to join the drillers. She could make nothing of the drill itself, a moving mass festooned with hydraulic hoses, but instantly saw the reason for the men's filthy clothing. At first she had imagined they had already struck water but the liquid mud spewing from the hole was, she realised, generated by the water the drillers added. It splashed messily about over everything. Len shouted something and the taller man spread one hand twice. What did that mean? Had they been drilling for ten minutes, ten hours? Would they take a smoko break in ten?

Jack shouted something, tapped his wrist and came back to her. ‘Noisy,' he commented. ‘Not much to see, either. You want to come over to the van? Terry's gonna swing the billy for us. They're about ready for smoko.'

‘How is it going? Any sign of water?'

He grimaced. ‘They blew a hose then they had to change a bit, so no – not yet.' Seeing her incomprehension, he added, ‘The bit's what does the cutting, and they wear and break, like anything else. So the pair of 'em aren't too happy but a cuppa will improve things.'

‘I see.' Reluctantly following Jack, she was pleasantly surprised to find the inside of the dusty van as neat and clean as she could wish. The little man was standing in his bare feet on a box, scrubbing his hands in the sink. The seats, she saw, had heavy-duty plastic taped over them, and the table was covered in newspaper.

Terry, it transpired, was the cook. He produced a credible brownie to go with the strong tea that the three of them drank while seated on the covered bench seats. Terry was an articulate, well-travelled man, despite his appearance, and the fact that he didn't remove his hat, which both looked and smelled like a dead animal.

‘It's a filthy job,' he observed, reading Sara's thoughts. ‘If I take my hat off, I'd have to chuck it outside.' He laughed, a surprisingly deep sound for such a little body. ‘Chances are the damn thing'd take off if I did. This gets hosed down each evening.' He tapped the plastic under him. ‘It's the only way, if you don't want to live in a sty.'

‘I never realised mud could be so messy,' Sara confessed.

‘Yeah, well, chuck in some grease, oil and hydraulic fluid. There's all the gunk in the world on a rig. Now . . .' He slid short legs to the floor and stood. ‘I'd better go. Feel free to wait in here if you want, Miss. Sean and Len'll be in, in a bit.'

‘Thank you, but it's Sara, Terry.'

‘Miss Sara, then.' He touched his hat and went out followed by Jack. The floor of the van, Sara realised belatedly, was also sheathed in plastic. Keeping it so clean must require quite an effort. She could see bunks at the opposite end. There was a gas stove and fridge beside the sink, but no bathroom. They must bathe outside, which given the state of their working clothes was probably just as well.

Sean and Len appeared in the doorway and Sara turned automatically to relight the gas for their tea. Sean stamped his boots and grabbed at the doorjamb, leaving a dirty smear behind. A sharp odour she couldn't place accompanied him. He swore, ‘Bastard of a job this is.' Catching sight of Sara he stopped and grunted an apology for his language, looking ruefully at the mark on the door. ‘Terry'll be after me for that. Likes the place clean, he does.' He sat where Terry had, as Sara freshened the pot. ‘Well, you got this one well trained, Len.'

Sara stiffened at the remark and was glad when Len ignored it, murmuring instead, ‘You're down the best part of thirty metres, you say. Most of the bores we've got are round the fifty mark. Fifty-five's the cut-off at any rate.'

‘Twenty metres – easy to say,' Sean groused. ‘The state of the rig, we could be lucky to get another three before somethin' else blows. I've said it before but I swear this is me last season in the bloody desert. More chance of gettin' service and spares under a six month, on the back side of the moon. Man's an idiot,' he grumbled, slurping tea. ‘Gotta be easier ways to make a quid.'

‘Try mine,' Len said dryly. ‘At least a rig's not dependent on the seasons.'

‘Yer think?' Sean lowered his mug and jerked his head at the door. ‘You fancy digging that lot outta black soil after five inches of rain? I done it up on the Barkly year b'fore last. Bloody thing ended up buried to the top of the wheels on the off side. Miracle she never tipped over. Took me and the little fella a week to get her out. Mud to our arses. Damn near smothered young Terry.' He grinned as if the memory had cheered him, his dark face suddenly lightening. ‘Well, that's life. No point bitching, eh?'

‘Nobody listens.' Len nodded. In amicable silence they finished their tea and went out.

Sara put the milk back in the fridge and the cups and empty plate in the sink. Then, because she had nothing else to occupy her, she washed them up and found a rag in the cupboard with which to scrub away the greasy handprint on the doorjamb: it exuded the same sharp smell as Sean had, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste. It wasn't just mud. Something oily had been added and she had to really scrub to shift it. That done, she prowled the length of the van, looking at the fixtures. There was a screened skylight, she discovered, and windows, also screened, above the bunks. These had linen on them and one, which she presumed to be Terry's, had an old towel spread over the pillow. There was a magazine on the other bunk. Sara flipped it open, gave a little gasp of surprise, then dropped it again.
That,
she thought, was probably Sean's. Not that it was any of her business. It served her right for snooping. She took herself back to the kitchen end and sat down, wondering if Roger had ever possessed magazines like that. She could not believe it of him, there had been nothing concealed in his life, which had been as wholesome and open for inspection as the gym he had managed. But didn't most men read them? What about Jack, then? The thought made her flush and she instantly wished it had never occurred to her. That was definitely none of her business!

Seated at the table, chin cupped in one hand, the brief images she had glimpsed replayed in Sara's mind and she shifted uncomfortably, wishing she hadn't seen them – or at least had not linked them, however fleetingly, with Jack.

I wish I never,
whimpered a tiny voice in the back of her head and like an echo came a tearful answer,
Oh, I wish I never, too.

Sara froze to perfect stillness, as if movement of any sort would banish the memory. It was such a fragile thing. Concentrating hard, she whispered the words and the picture seemed to grow – the two of them, terrified, somewhere in the dark. From the tearful litany she had heard, Sara knew they had done something very wrong. Were they hiding from parental displeasure and, if so, where? She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the picture to expand, but only darkness and the muffled sobs came to her, and the fear, stark and formless. She rocked in her seat, reaching, reaching – and the door flew open, dispersing the picture as wind does mist.

‘Sara!' Jack called. ‘We hit it! We've got water.'

The water turned out to be of dubious quality. Not that it mattered, Len said, the relief of the gamble having paid off plain to read in his face. There was a sort of buoyancy too in the way he moved, as if a weight had been eased from his shoulders. By then the drillers had hauled the rotary drill from the hole and were casing it, slotting and lowering the lengths of poly-piping until the last one stood proud of the muddied surface. They ran a pump down it and the water came gushing up.

‘Bit under fifty metres in depth.' Len beamed. ‘Couldn't ask for better'n that.' He cupped his hands beneath the flow they were measuring and lifted the water to his mouth, drank and spat. ‘Bit of mineral there, touch of salt too. Still, the stock won't mind.'

Jack, rolling a mouthful around, also spat. ‘You're right about that. I've tasted better.'

‘And worse,' Len reminded him. ‘It's water.'

Terry fetched a mug from the van and filled it for Sara. ‘Want to try it?'

‘Thanks.' She took it with a smile, which quickly changed to a grimace. ‘Aargh! That's awful.' Warned by the others' reactions, she'd taken only the tiniest sip and now dumped the rest. ‘Is it normal for bore water to be so nasty? Can cows really drink that?'

Terry scooped up a handful and pulled a face. ‘The quality varies from good to bad. The best is soft enough you can wash your hair in it. The worst'll keep stock alive. I'd say that's about middling. Luck of the draw, Miss Sara.'

They kept the pump running for an hour. Sara, watching the water soak away into the red soil, spoke quietly to Jack. ‘Isn't that wasting it?'

‘Just testing the supply. Has to be enough there to make it worth the expense of equipping.'

The liquid glittered briefly silver, then sank into the thirsty ground leaving a little trail of debris, composed of grass stems and dead leaves, about its edges. The red earth's appetite seemed insatiable. ‘How much is enough?'

He rubbed a thumb against his jaw. ‘Twelve, fifteen hundred gallons an hour – anything over's a bonus.'

‘I see. Congratulations, by the way. That stick of yours
is
magic.'

‘Well, shucks, Miss Sara,' he drawled. ‘I was only exercising the gift God gave me.'

‘Of course you were.' She smiled in sudden, uncomplicated delight. ‘It's wonderful though, isn't it? Len, and Beth too, of course, it'll mean such a lot to them.'

He looked at her. ‘You really ride for the brand, don't you?'

‘I beg your pardon?'

His look was quizzical. ‘It means you care about the place you work for. It matters more than just another job.'

‘Oh, well.' Sara flushed a little. ‘Of course I care! I
like
Beth, and her family. Even I can see that this is important to them – so yes, it matters. Do you think because I'm from the city I don't care about people?'

‘Nope. You've proved that. What
I
think,' he added, lips bent into the suggestion of a smile, ‘is that you were a country gal once. Maybe only for a bit, but you said yourself that what you're remembering isn't city based.'

Sara nodded thoughtfully. ‘True enough.' She snapped her fingers. ‘And there's another bit that came back while I was in the van. It doesn't make much sense yet, but it's a memory.' She sniffed suddenly, a waft of the sharp odour she had previously noted on Sean's clothes reaching her. ‘What
is
that smell, Jack?'

‘Hydraulic fluid. One of the hoses burst earlier. Drenched Sean. Well, looks like the hour's up.' The pump had stopped. ‘Now we'll see what we've got.'

It turned out to be better than expected. The bore's capacity was two thousand gallons an hour. ‘Roughly speaking,' Sean cleared his throat and spat. ‘Wouldn't wanna live on it, but.'

‘It'll do me.' Len was exuberant. ‘That'll water more stock than the grass'll support. A great day's work, boys. If there was a pub, I'd be shouting, but as there isn't we might as well have lunch instead.'

It was after two when they left the drillers' camp but they still had bores to check on the way home. ‘You don't mind, Sara?' Len asked. ‘No sense wasting the fuel, seeing we're already out here.'

‘Of course not. Helen must've expected something like it because she packed extra cake. Smoko, I presume.'

‘That'd be Mum,' Jack agreed, settling into his seat. ‘She's got this boy scout thing about always being prepared.'

Little was said after that; the vehicle was too noisy and Len's driving was of the bull-at-a-gate kind. The primary road out to the bitumen was one thing – not particularly good, Sara had thought – until she experienced the narrow tracks that served the bores. Len had a tendency to crash through the holes and gutters and speed through the deep sand drifts, which sent the back end of the Toyota fishtailing wildly. Jack swore as his elbow made violent contact with the door, saying pointedly, ‘This old bomb does have a brake pedal, you know.'

Len ignored his remark, but when they made their first stop Jack replaced his brother-in-law behind the wheel. Len didn't seem to mind, simply remarking, ‘It'll add an hour to our time.'

‘Be more than that if you wrap us round a tree,' Jack retorted tartly. ‘I dunno how you ever got a licence.'

It was a long and sobering drive for Sara. It was her first close look at the stock, and even her untutored eye could see the effect of the drought in the bony frames of the cows. Their bodies had shrunk to skeletons wrapped in hide, their ribs prominent enough to count. They looked as tired and worn as the country around the bores, which was denuded of grass and leaves alike.

‘They lick up the fallen leaves,' Jack explained as she stared at the barren ground. ‘It's that and the stock supplements keeping 'em alive.'

Sadly, this wasn't true for all of them. There were three dead at one bore, one dead and another incapable of rising at their second stop. Sara sat silent in the middle seat while Len shot it, then hooked a chain about its horns – as he had done with each of the others – and towed it away from the trough. Plainly an all too familiar practice, as the odoriferous pile of hide and bones already gathered there showed.

There was a
clank
from the back as Len unhooked the chain and tossed it onto the tray.

‘Lick's running low again.' He got in and slammed the door. ‘Rate they're going through it, we'll need another truckload. The overdraft's gonna kill us.' He spoke as if he had forgotten Sara's presence. Jack grunted – in assent or commiseration – as a willy-wind started across the flat and whirled towards the trough, sucking the red dirt into a huge column that grew exponentially as Sara watched. It tore past the mill, rattling the wheel blades, and the cockies drinking from the tank rim fled squawking. The cows, she noticed, didn't even lift their heads, or alter their slow, wobbling pace as they left the bore.

She remembered Sam's words then, that there were always droughts out here, and spoke with sudden passion. ‘It
has
to get better though, doesn't it?'

‘Oh, yeah,' Len agreed. ‘Eventually. Just a question, really, of how much worse it's gonna get first.'

His weary acceptance silenced her easy optimism. What did she know of the struggle and heartache that comprised the weeks and months and years of the battle for men like Len? Beth would understand the toll it took, she thought humbly, as would Helen. All she could see was the ugliness and waste. The knowledge silenced her and certainly helped to put her own problems into perspective. So she was missing a few details of her childhood? Big deal. Out here people were fighting for their very existence.

At the next bore a cow lay drowned in the trough. A mass of crows took flight at the vehicle's approach and Jack wheeled the Toyota about, backing up towards the trough. Sara looked away after one quick glance, sickened by the holes where the animal's eyes had been. In a small voice she asked, ‘How did it get in there?'

‘Something stronger pushed her.' Jack's eyes were on the mirror watching Len attach the chain. ‘It happens. They have to walk long distances for feed. Leaves 'em dry, so they rush the trough when they come in. Something bigger – a bullock, maybe a bull – gave her a shove and she went arse over teakettle into it. Happens. We're gonna be here a while because the seal's cracked and the trough's leaking. Might be a good time, if you're up to it, to swing the billy?'

Sara looked blankly about. ‘Start a fire? With what?'

‘Okay,' he said, engaging low range as Len gave a shout. ‘I'll do the fire.'

The bore had good, soft water, but the taste of it was spoiled, for Sara anyway, by the faint smell of corruption in the air from the dead cow's body. The carcass had joined others near the scrub-line and should have been distant enough for its stench to be undetect­able, so perhaps she was imagining it. The stock had gone from the bore and only a faint, hot breeze stirred the dust about the tank. The men had turned the water off, then knocked the end right out of the trough, flooding the ground about it. Sara breathed in the scent of wet earth and glanced at the sun, which had drawn long shadows across the land.

‘Home in the dark again,' Len said resignedly, tossing the dregs of his tea.

‘Have you much more to do?' Sara asked.

‘Nah.' Jack was standing. ‘Bit of extra packing should see it tight.'

They had beaten the buckled metal straight and used wide strips cut from an old grader tube to pack between the trough's edge and its end. The tube came from a medley of items on the back of the Toyota. It seemed a strange thing to carry and Sara wondered if it was there by design or happy accident. She emptied the billy and gathered up the gear as the men walked back to their task.

The lights were on when they reached the homestead, shining a welcome through the drab grey trees that looked black in the headlights. Sara was tired, her body numb from the jarring of the road. Jack pulled up near the shed and switched off, and they all sat for a moment, absorbing the quiet, broken by the tick of the cooling engine and Jess's tail thumping against the vehicle's metal. The smell of dust and diesel overrode the scent of water and blossom which, Sara realised, must be the oleanders along the front fence.

‘Well.' Jack shoved his door open, the cab light affording a glimpse of his tired grin. ‘We know how to show a girl a good time, eh, Len? Enjoy your day off, Sara?'

‘Bits of it.' It was almost a shock to remember the drillers and their news. ‘What will you call the new bore, Len?'

‘I'll think of something.' He smacked his hand against his hat, raising dust, then refitted it, bending to pat Jess. ‘I've got a phone call to make first.'

Helen was hovering near the kitchen door, tea towel in hand, as Len pushed it open. ‘Well?' she demanded.

His lugubrious face broke into a smile. ‘We got it! Two thousand an hour, bit under fifty, not the best water in the world.' He continued through to the office, heading for the phone to tell Beth.

‘That's wonderful!' Helen beamed at Sara and Jack. ‘Where are you, Frank? They got the bore!' she called. ‘That's a good quantity. Why, back home, Trinity only tested out at twelve hundred and it hasn't forked in thirty years. Harry said he saw you. So where have you been all day, apart from the Twelve Mile?'

‘Bore run.' Sara answered, disregarding the rest. What in heaven's name was
forking?
She was too tired to care. She hung her hat and pressed her hands to her face where the skin felt tight and drawn despite her hat. ‘Oooh, I could do with a wash. The water's really horrible, Helen. You couldn't drink it. But the drill went down so fast. They hit water before we had lunch.'

‘It was a latish lunch and a later smoko,' Jack reminded her. He looked to his father. ‘There was a dead beast in the trough at Potshot. We had to reshape and refit the end of the trough.'

‘These things happen,' the older man said. ‘Did you see the young hopeful riding the mail? Going fencing, he told us. Dear God! What's the country coming to?'

‘Well, he's shown initiative in taking the job,' Sara defended him. ‘He wants to be a photographer. Did he take pictures of anything here?' Her eyes crinkled in a smile. ‘I can see one of you turning up somewhere, captioned
Cattleman
.'

‘Did he take pictures? Only of everything he saw! The house, the sheds, the mill. He must've taken at least a dozen of the old forge out behind the shed, and he had to ask me what it was!'

‘So would I. You make things with it, don't you?'

‘Yep. Back in the day blacksmiths used it to forge metal into stuff – horse shoes, wheel rims, that sort of thing. Now it's just junk.'

Sara tsked and mock frowned. ‘It's nothing of the sort, Frank. It's heritage. Glossy magazines love that sort of pic – falling down sheds and milk churns and quaint old mailboxes. He'll probably sell it for more than his job'll pay.' She grinned mischievously. ‘You could find yourself on the same page.'

Helen laughed. ‘Watch it, dear. She's got your number. Use-by date all used up. Right, who's ready to eat?'

On Sunday afternoon Clemmy and Becky returned. Sara, who had heard the vehicle coming, lingered in the garden, prudently not approaching the gate until the dust cloud had dispersed. Becky tumbled out clutching a little bag, beaming at Sara.

‘Did you have a good time, chicken? I missed you.'

‘It was great. Mrs Marshall got me this.' She displayed the bag, which contained a Barbie doll and a spare outfit. ‘And Mum bought me this.' She tugged breathlessly at a new headband that sported a red plastic flower.

Sara admired both and, as the child ran up the steps, moved to greet Clemmy, then to collect Becky's gear from the back.