Out of Alice (6 page)

The men were home late that evening. They had been pulling Canteen bore, Len told her, and would be starting back at first light to complete the job. ‘Would've camped if we'd had the gear,' he said. ‘Could you manage a five o'clock breakfast, Sara?'

‘Of course.' It seemed awfully early. ‘What's the rush?'

‘Water,' Jack grunted. Neither of them had showered yet and their clothes were smeared with rusty-looking mud – or muddy-looking rust, Sara couldn't decide. ‘The tank's empty so the cattle don't drink till we've fixed the mill.'

‘I see. What shall I do about the goats?'

‘Let them out,' Len said. ‘Their kids'll take care of the milk.'

‘Right.' It was at moments like these that Sara was most deeply aware of her ignorance. Even Becky would've known the answer to that, she thought, and felt foolish for asking. Both men appeared tired so she got the meal on the table quickly, and later shook her head when Jack moved to pick up the tea towel. ‘Becky and I will do it. Is that the phone?'

Len answered it, sticking his head into the kitchen some five minutes later to say, ‘They'll be home tomorrow, Sara.'

‘How's Sam?'

‘Better, Beth said. He had a fever, but he's brighter now. She thinks he's right to travel.'

‘That's good.'

Len vanished into the bathroom and Jack went out yawning, calling goodnight from the door. Becky, putting away the last pot, looked expectantly at her.

‘What shall we do now?'

Sara stifled a sigh; she had planned to watch television, but current affairs wouldn't interest Becky and it wasn't yet her bedtime. ‘You could read a book,' she suggested without much hope. Becky had already complained that her books were boring. She reiterated it again now with vigour.

‘Okay.' Sara gave in. ‘We could think about another page. What if we find some pretties to paste onto it first, then decide on a theme, what it's to be about?'

‘I want to make one about us, for Mum,' Becky said. ‘I could put all our faces on it. There's heaps of photos of me and Sam, and Mum and Dad and Uncle Jack. And I could put in Jess and the horses. I wish I had one of you too, Sara.'

‘That's nice, but maybe you should just keep it as a family thing. Have you got a snap of the homestead? You could put it in the middle with all the faces around it.'

‘Yes! And a ribbon in the corner. Only, can you tie a bow, Sara? Mine never turn out right,' she confessed sadly.

‘I'm sure I can, chicken. Your mum is going to be amazed.'

Becky beamed.

The clamour of the alarm dragged Sara from sound sleep, its strident urgency impossible to ignore. Groaning, she rolled over, shut it off, and got up reaching for her wrap. In the kitchen she lit the gas for the kettle and a pan of eggs, which would be quicker than chops, and was setting the table when the men came in, dressed for the day.

‘Morning,' she yawned at Len. ‘Do you need lunches?'

‘Morning, Sara. If you wouldn't mind.' His hair was rumpled, he looked as tired as she felt.

‘No problem.' There was cold meat and cheese, she thought, and pickle. That would do. She opened the fridge, then stiffened as an eerie whistling sounded. ‘What on earth's that?'

‘Curlew.' Jack had come in unseen. He dropped bread into the waiting toaster and pulled the pantry cupboard open. ‘We got any dead horse?'

‘What?'

‘Red sauce. A curlew's a bird, by the way.'

‘Well, I know that,' she said crossly. ‘I'm warning you, Jack Ketch, I am not a morning person and you are starting to irritate me.'

‘Can't have that.' He found the sauce and sat down. ‘Not when you're looking so fetching.' He buttered his toast and winked. ‘Great eggs too, just how I like 'em.'

Sara ignored him, dropping more bread into the toaster and then starting on the lunches. Twenty minutes later when the Toyota drove off, she cleared the table, left the dishes for later and returned to bed. She remembered the wink then, and smiled. Jack's cheerfulness could be irritating, but she had come to trust him. There had been no time yet for a private word, but that was scarcely his fault. She knew little enough about cattle country but water must obviously take precedence over all else, and even if he hadn't been called away, Beth's return today would leave her with little time alone. She would do a load of washing later, she thought, and some baking. Beth would be tired from the long drive; she'd appreciate an easy day tomorrow.

Sara yawned, snuggling luxuriously into her pillow. Life out here was certainly different. Who would have thought a month ago that she would find herself able to bake bread and entertain a child, and consider it all part of the job? The office and her previous life seemed like an old film she had once seen, her stalker no more than a stereotyped villain. She hadn't even suffered a migraine since coming to Redhill. Without quite knowing how, it seemed she had found the one place she truly wanted to be.

Mother and son arrived late in the afternoon, the station wagon coasting to a stop before the front gate. Jess promptly went mad, leaping at the passenger door, her tail beating a frenzy of welcome as Sam got out and fell to his knees to hug her. He looked thinner than ever, and dark rings below his eyes emphasised his pallor. Beth's weariness showed as she groaned and stretched, hands to the small of her back, before greeting Sara. She hugged Becky, but her eyes were on her son as he climbed the front steps.

‘I've made tea,' Sara offered. ‘It's all ready, if you'd like to go in.'

‘Thanks, sounds lovely; I could do with something. Sam, too. You'd best have a bite now, Sam,' she called. ‘Then rest till dinner. He's lost weight,' she explained. ‘He always does. So, how's everything, Sara? Len told me they'd probably be late back tonight.'

‘Yes. They're pulling a bore.' Sara felt satisfaction at having remembered the terminology.

‘Mum, Mum,' Becky tugged at Beth's skirt, which she had teamed with another of her singlet tops. It was the first time Sara had seen her out of pants.

‘Not just now, love,' Beth said. ‘I need to get Sam settled first.'

‘Yes, but see what I've made. It's my own book, all about us and the station. I did it all myself —'

‘That's nice. You can show me later.' Beth was hauling bags out of the back of the vehicle as she spoke, so she didn't see her daughter's face fall, and when she turned with a bag in each hand, Becky had gone. Sara had reached a hand towards the child but Becky ignored it, running up the steps to vanish inside.

Sara bit her lip and said nothing, seizing the handle of Sam's bag instead. ‘Look, I can get this. You go on. It's all set out in the kitchen.'

‘You sure? Thanks.' Beth glanced at her watch. ‘It's time for Sam's tablet, he's still on antibiotics. He's had a fever, which is worrying . . .' She rooted in her handbag, then hurried ahead, leaving Sara to follow. Sam was in the kitchen by the time she got there, a glass in his hand, and she smiled at him.

‘Welcome home, Sam. We missed you, especially Becky. Where is she?'

‘She went out. Do I have to eat that, Mum?' He eyed the food and milk Beth was setting before him.

‘Just try, sweetie,' his mother coaxed, ‘even a little bit.' She poured tea for herself and Sara and settled into her customary chair with a sigh, and a quick glance round the kitchen.

Sara smiled sympathetically. ‘Good to be home?'

‘Yeah. It's a tiring drive.'

Sara could see the palpable effort it took for Beth not to watch or badger Sam as he slowly consumed half a sandwich and drank some of the milk. ‘The treatment really takes it out of him,' she said once the boy had left to lie on the daybed on the verandah. ‘It makes him so sick, he barely eats for days after. And the chemo itself suppresses his immune system so he's wide open to infections. His temperature spiked the same evening, but we seem to have caught the bug in time. Or at least I hope so.' She sighed, rubbing absently at the tiny permanent crease between her brows. ‘You've done a great job, by the way. How's the meat situation for dinner?'

‘That's done. There's a casserole in the oven. Creamed rice and jelly for dessert,' Sara said. ‘I didn't think you'd feel like cooking.'

‘You're a treasure.' Beth sat back in her chair. ‘I noticed the laundry basket was empty. Don't tell me you did the washing, too?'

Sara laughed. ‘If you'd seen the men's clothes last night! It was wash them or have them walk out the door themselves. So Sam won't be up to school tomorrow?'

‘Maybe Monday. Boy! I really needed that tea. Thank you, Sara. You've done wonders. Now.' She glanced around as if just now noting her daughter's absence. ‘Where did Becky get to?'

‘Gone after the goats, perhaps? I think,' Sara said carefully, ‘that she really wanted you to see her book. She's worked very hard on it to surprise you.'

Beth looked stricken. ‘Oh, God! I brushed her off, didn't I? Sometimes all I can think of is Sam. I don't mean to do it, but it happens and it's not right to expect someone her age to understand.' She got up as the clang of bells sounded, rattling rhythmically as their bearers cantered along. ‘That sounds like the goats coming now, and rather too fast. She's angry, poor mite. I'll go and find her.'

The men were late returning again. Standing on the front verandah Sara watched the day die in an extravagance of gold and pink above the dark line of the mulga. The paddock beyond the garden fence had a melancholy cast at sunset, the shadows beneath the trees a place where loneliness lived. Sara turned her gaze to the darkening sky, amazed to see tiny bats darting on velvet wings as the stars pricked out above them. There must be insects to feed them, though what
they
would live on was a puzzle, when the parched earth and the very air crackled with dryness. The dim shapes of the scrub seemed to yearn towards the cloudless sky, seeking the moisture that never came. Sara wondered how long it took for mulga to die. What would the cattle do then – or Len and Bungy, and the rest of the people whose livelihood the mulga was? And she wondered too how the station people stood the endless deferment of hope. No doubt Jack could tell her. She frowned then at how often he seemed to creep into her thoughts – but then she looked quickly towards the track where a vehicle's lights were flashing through the trees.

‘So did you get the bore fixed? Canteen, was it?' Sara asked once they were all at table. Len had greeted his son with a hug and spoken privately to Beth, and both the children were present, Becky subdued but Sam looking brighter than he had earlier. The fan was on, moving lazily in the warm air.

‘Yep.' Jack ate hungrily, nudging Sam after his first mouthful. ‘Dig in, mate. It's good. Besides, you don't wanna insult the cook, very bad move that.'

Sam gave a fleeting grin and obeyed. Sara was touched by his effort. He obviously adored his uncle, just as Becky did. The boy said, ‘We had smoko at Mr Hammond's camp, Uncle Jack. He's building a new bridge over the Three Man. And I've got a new watch, see?' He held up a thin wrist to display it. ‘What have you been doing?'

‘Nice,' Jack said admiringly. ‘You'll never be late for dinner now. It's about time Main Roads got off their butt and did something; that bridge was barely safe. The pump packed it in at Canteen so your Dad and I have been out there. It took us a day and a half to fix. Trough was bone dry for most of it.' He spoke as to another man. ‘When we were done there we went onto Wintergreen to see the Kingco blokes about getting a hole put down on the Forty Mile – when they've finished their own drilling, that is.'

Sam looked eagerly at him, the fork halfway to his mouth. ‘You gonna take your stick out there?'

‘I'll have a look tomorrow. Wasn't time today. I'm not too hopeful, though. That's a dry strip of country, but your dad reckons it's worth a try.'

‘I wish I could go with you.' Sam looked at his parents. ‘Mum, I don't s'pose . . .'

Beth shook her head. ‘I'm sorry, Sam. We have to be sensible. Later, when you're well, there'll be other trips.'

‘It's okay,' he muttered, though his disappointment was plain.

Beth looked at her governess. ‘Why don't you go, Sara? Would you be interested? You've certainly earned a day off and if you've never seen divining . . .'

‘I haven't.' Sara hesitated. ‘I thought it was, you know, sideshow alley stuff, like tarot cards and fortune telling. But tomorrow's a school day anyhow.'

Her employer smiled. ‘I can manage that. I've nothing else to do. You've baked, washed, cleaned – take a break and have a day out.'

‘I want to go too,' Becky said. ‘Can I, Uncle Jack?'

Diplomatically he left it to Beth to shake her head. ‘Not this time, pet. You've got school.'

Becky's brown eyes flashed with remembered hurt. ‘Then I want Sara to teach me, not you.'

‘But Sara hasn't had a day off since she got here.'

‘It's not fair!' Becky leapt to her feet, knocking her fork flying. ‘I never get to do anything I want. I hate you! I hate everybody!' She ran from the room and a moment later the crash of her bedroom door echoed through the house.

Sara felt immensely uncomfortable, both from Becky's pointed retort and Beth's assumption that Jack would have no objection to her plan. She murmured, ‘Perhaps I shouldn't, she's got used to my ways.'

‘No,' Beth said firmly. ‘I won't have her thinking that tantrums work. She's feeling hurt and insecure right now, but there have to be rules.'

Sara inwardly cursed Jack, who still hadn't spoken. ‘Well, in that case I can open gates,' she offered after a moment, and was relieved to see him nod.

‘Sounds like a deal, then.'

For once they had an unhurried morning. School had started before Sara finished cutting lunches for herself and Jack. She packed them into a cool-box along with a freezer brick, collected her hat and headed for the vehicle shed to find Jack fuelling up the Toyota at the bowser. The cool-box went into the middle seat, though first she had to pluck aside a Y-shaped stick. On the point of tossing it out, she waved it at Jack.

‘What's this?'

‘Hang on to that.' He hooked up the bowser hose. ‘I just went and cut it.' He wiped his hands on a rag that he stuffed under his seat, then got into the cab. ‘All set?'

‘I think so.' Sara inspected the stick. ‘What is it? Some special wood?'

‘Nope, just a bit of mulga. Point is, there's precious few trees out on the Twelve Mile, that big plain where you felt crook. And before you ask, there are maybe a million Eight Miles, Six Miles and so on spread across the country and nobody is gonna change 'em into kilometres. Not even in fifty years' time when everyone's forgotten what a mile is.'

Sara laughed, a carefree burble of sound, suddenly glad of a day's freedom from chores. ‘I see. Not just stubborn, but pigheaded too.'

‘That's about the size of it.' His eyes went to her hair, which she was aware was sunlit and gleaming with coppery lights. Her hat was again on her lap, pushed off by the rifle behind her. ‘Maybe you should think about getting some proper head gear?'

‘What's wrong with this?' She picked up the straw covering.

He shrugged, lips twitching as he looked across at her. ‘Mobs o' things. It'll blow off in the wind. Given the chance, the stock'll eat it. Rain'll ruin it —'

‘Ha! Chance would be a fine thing.' She flung the words over her shoulder as she got out to open the horse-paddock gate.

Once they were underway again Jack asked, ‘So what did you want to speak to me about?' The teasing note had dropped from his voice and his glance was serious, inviting her confidence.

‘Oh.' Now that the moment had come, Sara hardly knew how to start. She stared fixedly at the dusty dash, feeling the judder of the vehicle moving over the corrugated road. From the corner of her eye she watched his left hand shifting the gearstick through quick changes in response to the dips and gutters in the track.

‘Did you change your mind about it?' he wondered, as if promp­ting her.

Sara flushed. ‘No, it's just – where to begin? The other day when I told you I'd never fainted before? Well, I realised later that was a lie, because I did, once —' She stopped herself. ‘Before I came here. It was a very hot day, probably a touch of the sun.' It sounded lame, but she was regretting the impulse to confide in him. He would think she was crazy. ‘I just – well, I wanted to assure you that, despite that, I'm not ill or – or irresponsible. I thought you should know, that's all.' She bit her lip, cursing the heat she could feel in her face.

‘Yes?' He sounded more puzzled than relieved. ‘Well, that's good but I wasn't demanding an explanation, Sara. So why are you telling me this?'

‘Because . . .' Sara pressed her hands to her hot cheeks, framing sentences and then discarding them. ‘Because you're here,' she blurted. ‘I'm sorry. This was a bad idea. I felt I needed to talk to someone and Beth has too much on her plate already. Look, can we please just forget it?'

‘Obviously it's important to you. Whatever you choose to tell me won't go any further. If you have something to say, I'll listen. Maybe I won't be able to help, but often enough just setting out a problem – if that's what you have – helps to clarify it. And it'll be a damn sight cheaper than ringing your family from out here.'

‘There's nobody I can ring,' Sara admitted. ‘That's part of it, really. There's only my mother, and I can't talk to her, even if I knew where she was, which I don't.'

‘Well, fire away,' Jack said comfortably. ‘We've got all day.' When she didn't respond, he added encouragingly, ‘A good trick is to start with a word. So in just one word, Sara, what's your main concern?'

And suddenly she wanted to tell him. The words spilled from her almost without volition, just pouring forth, and the relief of letting them go was immense.

‘Memory,' Sara said. ‘I've never been able to remember anything before the age of six – and now I think I'm starting to, and it terrifies me. That's why I fainted, both times, here and in Mildura. It wasn't the heat.' She gasped then. ‘My God! I didn't mean – I opened my mouth and it all rushed out.'

‘Obviously you
did
need to talk,' he responded. ‘Okay, that seems simple enough. Remembering makes you afraid. What of?'

‘I don't know!' Sara gritted in frustration. ‘Anyway it's not really remembering, because I
can't
– there are just teeny flashes now and then, like something seen at high speed. A glimpse from a bus window maybe – there and gone before I can make sense of it. It's the fear that comes with it that —' She stopped and tried again. ‘It's like something bad happened back then when I was little, something so terrible that I shut my eyes so I wouldn't know about it. Not my real eyes.' She struggled to explain. ‘I think I must've seen something I can't bear to remember.'

‘So you think you blocked it out back then, shoved it into a dark cupboard, if you like, and locked the door?' Jack said slowly. ‘And now that door's coming open?'

‘Yes.' She was grateful for his quick comprehension.

‘I see. Well, is there nobody you could ask about that time? Not your mother, you said. Your father, perhaps?'

‘He died when I was a kid. I scarcely remember him. I only remember that he scared me. I have this picture of hiding from him; well, I think it was him, but I can't recall his face. Just somebody who shouted, a shadow on the wall that shouted.' She shivered. ‘I think I made him angry going out. It was after the crash. I was supposed to stay in bed. Afterwards, Stella said he got sick. That's when he went away and I didn't see him again.'

‘Hang on, you're losing me. Who's Stella, and what crash?'

‘My mother. She said there was a car accident. I don't remember it so I can't say if I was in the car or hit by a car. I just recall a dark little room I had to stay in, and that my head hurt a lot.'

The vehicle had slowed to a crawl. Jack waited for a patch of shade on the road and pulled up in it. ‘I seem to be missing something here. This was years and years ago, right? And you've never asked your mother about any of it – how this accident happened, or what you might've seen? Whereabouts did it occur, for instance, and was anybody killed? Questions like that.'

‘Jack, you don't know my mother. I've never had a straight answer from her in my life about
anything
I've asked. She had no time for me as a kid and used to say so to my face. She never wanted me and couldn't wait to get me out of her life. Right now I don't even know where she's living.'

‘Okay.' He tapped the steering wheel in thought. ‘Family friends, then? Aunts, next-door neighbours?'

‘I have no rellies,' Sara said simply. ‘Not that I know of, anyway. And Stella always rented. She hopped – still hops around – like a flea on a dog. So, no neighbours, and as for friends . . .' These had only ever been male, men Stella met in the pub and brought home from time to time for companionship and casual sex. Sara had been a teenager before the true nature of their presence had dawned on her. With a teenager's righteousness she had made no secret of her disgust, disdaining the men with their fading hair and heavy bodies who littered the bathroom with their dirty clothing and filled the fridge with their beer. She had hated the way they treated the place as their own, sprawling on the couch, leaving their mess for others to clean up. Once, when she was fifteen, she had come home from school to find her own bed stripped back to the linen and a used condom on the sheet. Stella, when confronted with Sara's blazing green eyes, had been unrepentant, claiming that her own much prized waterbed had sprung a leak.

‘It's
my
room,' Sara had yelled. ‘How dare you and that hairy ape even go in there?'

Stella's eyes had narrowed. She said venomously, ‘It's the room
I
let you have, and don't you forget it! What's your problem anyway? You can change a bed, can't you?'

‘With that filthy thing in it?'

Her mother had laughed mockingly. ‘Oh, grow up, Miss Priss. So Jerry's a careless sod. Men are, you'll find.'

Remembering the exchange, Sara pressed her lips together, reiterating, ‘No, there's nobody. I never really thought about it before but my parents seem to have been rootless. Stella anyway, and all I know about my father is his name – well, not even that really. Stella called him Vic, so I suppose he was Victor, or even Vittoria. He could have been Italian, he had olive skin – at least, I think he did. I don't even know what he worked at. I asked Stella once and she just looked at me and said, “This and that. What business is it of yours?” He was my father and she wouldn't even tell me his occupation.'

‘Not much help there, then,' Jack said. ‘I haven't been either, I'm afraid.'

‘You have,' Sara said. ‘Maybe it hasn't solved anything but laying it out does help. If I'd only done it before, that man mightn't have driven me out of my job —' She swallowed the rest of the sentence.