Out of Alice (9 page)

‘Yeah, and the minute Sam's out of danger, Dad'll be out here looking to take up the strain for Len. See if he isn't.'

‘You know him best.' Sara collected their empty mugs. Beyond the window a faint greyness limned the horizon. She put the cups in the sink and heard the younger rooster give his uncertain crow. It sounded, as always, as if his tonsils needed oiling. ‘Dawn's almost here.'

Jack yawned. ‘Yeah. Whatever's happening, at least he's in hospital. Not much else to be thankful for right now, but there is that.'

Standing at the sink watching the stars die and the first tinge of colour steal into the east, feeling the drag of the night's experience and the weight of responsibility on her shoulders, Sara silently concurred.

It was past noon before Beth's promised call came through. Jack had stayed around the homestead trying to cheer up a subdued Becky while they waited for news. With no school to distract the child, Sara had set her the task of making a get-well card for her brother, then started her off on another page in her scrapbook.

‘You could make it about the flying doctor,' she suggested. ‘Draw some pictures of his plane, maybe write a little story about all the people he saves with it.' And may the Fates grant that Sam was among them. Sara couldn't bear to contemplate any other outcome.

When the phone finally rang it was Jack who answered it. Sara had flown from the sink, hands still dripping, to hang with bated breath in the office doorway, unashamedly listening to the one-sided conversation.

‘Yeah,' Jack said. ‘Uh-huh.' Then, ‘Right, I'll tell – yeah, she's fine. Sara's keeping her busy.' The creases about Jack's eyes deepened as he frowned. ‘Yeah, well, that's good, sis. I can do that. The main thing now – Yeah, yeah. Fingers crossed, eh? Okay, bye.'

‘Well?' Sara couldn't restrain herself. ‘What did she say? How is he?'

Jack blew out his cheeks in a long exhalation. ‘Reading between the lines? Not too good. They've stabilised him and the official version is that he's holding his own. He's had a blood transfusion and some fancy drug for the infection. The doctors don't seem to know exactly what's causing that, but they're giving it their best shot with this drug. They've got him in intensive care and Mum's with them at the hospital. Dad –' he raised a brow at her – ‘what did I tell you? Dad's gone home, for the moment. He's packing the car to head out here later on. If Sam improves overnight, chances are they'll both wind up coming.'

‘Oh.' Sara's mind darted to sheets and the vacuum cleaner; she had best prepare the spare bedroom. ‘How's Beth? She must be worried sick.'

‘Holding it together. She's going to call tonight, wants to talk to you and Becky both. And there might be more news by then. Better news,' he amended.

It didn't seem terribly likely, Sara thought. People always glossed things, wanting to believe that
stable
meant
getting better,
when its meaning was actually closer to
still alive.
She sighed, and went to find Becky, wondering how to put a positive spin on the news that Sam was fighting for his life and wouldn't be home anytime soon.

They had roast mutton for tea with baked potatoes and pumpkin and a tin of green beans from the store. There was a fruit flan for dessert, the fruit also from a tin.

‘Do you ever have fresh fruit?' Sara found that she missed apples most; she had seen packets of dried ones on the store shelves, but they were a poor substitute for the crunch and tangy juice of the real thing.

‘There's a fig tree in the garden,' Jack said. ‘Bit early yet for picking, though – that's usually round November. Beth always had a great winter vegie garden, before Sam got sick. Tomatoes, caulie, peas – if it had a seed, she grew it. You a gardener, Sara?'

She shook her head. ‘A few flowers and herbs, but the only dirt I had was in tubs. The backyard had been asphalted over. My flat used to be a shop, you see, with a bit of a car park behind it. The front door opened onto the pavement. Eat your beans, Becky. They're good for you.'

‘Who says?' the little girl muttered rebelliously.

‘Well, let's see.' Sara pretended to think. ‘I'll list them and you count. All the gardeners in the world, most of the doctors, every mother you can think of . . . Anyone else, Jack?'

‘Heaps, woman,' he said loftily. ‘Think of all the cows that'd eat 'em if they could. And goats, horses – also the people who make those fancy salads to photograph for magazines . . .'

‘You're both weird, you know that?' But Becky looked a little happier for the fooling. ‘When's Mum gonna ring?'

‘Soon,' Sara promised. ‘Then maybe you could show your uncle what you did today while I clear up.'

‘Can we play a game after?'

‘If we get finished in time.' Sara cast a meaningful glance at the uneaten beans. Becky sighed and demolished them.

The phone rang at half past seven. Beth spoke to her daughter and her brother, then Jack signalled and passed the handpiece to Sara. ‘Beth?' she said, feeling the warmth of the plastic where his hand had rested. ‘How is he?'

‘The doctor thinks he's holding his own, thank God! The transfusion has helped and his temp's a little lower, but we're not out of the woods yet.' Her voice sounded thin and tired. ‘Len's with him now, I'm at Mum's place while I shower and eat, then I'll go back. Look, what I wanted to tell you was that once Sam's out of intensive care, they'll be coming out to Redhill. Mum and Dad, I mean. Dad's bound to go and Mum's not easy unless she knows what he's getting up to. It's his heart, you see. There's no telling how soon till they leave – a few days, a week even. It depends on Sam, so if you wouldn't mind getting the spare room ready when you can. Mum'll relieve you of the cooking once she gets there, so don't be thinking it's more work for you. Okay?'

‘Yes, of course. I've already done the room. Jack said they'd come. Don't worry about us, Beth. Everything's fine here. Just concentrate on Sam; give him my love and know we're thinking about you all, every minute of the day.'

‘Thanks. Give Becky a hug for me. I've got to go.' She hung up and Sara was left listening to the empty line.

‘He'll make it,' Jack assured her and she nodded as if there were no doubt.

‘Of course he will. Here, I've made another pot of tea. Now, chicken – what game are we playing?'

‘A short one,' Jack advised his niece. ‘It's been a long day and we have a longer one coming up tomorrow.' He looked at Sara. ‘Think you can hold the fort by yourself? I've got to get out to the boundary country so I'll be gone most of the day. I'll show you how to use the radio before I leave, just in case. You won't mind being alone?'

‘I'll be fine –
we'll
be fine, won't we, Becky? We can keep each other company and if we get bored, I know there's a pile of Len's shirts needing their buttons sewn back on.'

‘Well.' Jack shrugged, his lips twitching ever so slightly. ‘
I
know how to feel redundant. Shirts, eh? You're quite a surprise packet, you know that? So where's this game, Squirt?'

Becky already had the dominoes out. She rattled the tiles onto the cleared table and climbed onto her chair, kneeling on the seat, brown plaits swinging over her shoulder. Jack narrowed his eyes at her. ‘O-kaay. May the best man win, and seeing I'm the only one here, that'll be me.'

His niece grinned wickedly and snatched at a tile. ‘Won't either!'

Later, with Becky in bed, Sara washed their cups and rinsed out the teapot. Jack lifted his hat from its hook and bade her goodnight as he went out the door. She heard him speak to Jess, then the squeak and click of the gate, which reminded her that she still hadn't trimmed back the branch on the lemon tree. Tomorrow, then. Suddenly inexpressibly weary, she gave vent to an eye-watering yawn and snapped off the kitchen light. It had been, as Jack had said, a very long day and she would be glad to fall into bed: after she had set the alarm, she reminded herself, or she'd never wake in the morning.

The sound that dragged her from slumber seemed to come only minutes after she had closed her eyes, but a glance at the alarm clock showed that it was closer to two hours. Sitting up, she listened and identified the noise as sobbing coming from Becky's room. Sighing, she pulled on her wrap and went to investigate. She found the child awake, the brown hair tangled on the pillow, the top sheet on the floor and Becky herself curled up in pink pyjamas, damp and disconsolate, her shoulders shaking.

‘What is it, chicken?' Sara switched on the bedside lamp and sat down on the mattress, laying her hand on Becky's arm. ‘Did you have a bad dream?'

‘I want Mum,' the little girl choked. ‘I want her to come home, and Sam too, and for him not to be sick.' Brown eyes, swimming with tears, looked up at Sara. ‘What if he doesn't
ever
get better? What if he dies? Mum'll hate me and I'll n-never see him again.'

‘Oh, no, no – you've got that all wrong.' Sara smoothed her hair and reached for a corner of the discarded sheet to wipe the wet cheeks. ‘Goodness me, for a girl as smart as you are, Becky Calshot, you think some awfully silly things. First off, Sam
is
getting better. The doctor said so. Your brother is going to grow up to run Redhill, just like he told me. And your mum would never, ever hate you. She loves you to bits, even when you're naughty, which reminds me, she asked me to do something for her and, do you know, I clean forgot! It was while I was speaking to her on the phone tonight, but we started playing that game and it went out of my head.' She tsked to herself. ‘Dear me! And it was a special request too.'

Becky stopped crying to look at her. ‘What?'

‘It's too bad of me,' Sara said and bit a finger pondering, looking doubtfully at her charge. ‘Unless it's not too late? What do you think?'

‘What was it?' Intrigued, Becky gave a final snuffle and sat up.

‘This.' Sara folded her arms about the little pyjama-clad figure, speaking softly into her hair. ‘She said I was to give you a big hug for her. Is it all right that it's a little bit late?'

Becky nodded wordlessly and clung as Sara rocked her, their fused shadows moving on the wall behind them. When she finally released her and made to rise, the girl caught at her arm. ‘Don't go. Tell me a story like Mum does.'

‘What sort of story?' Sara was practical and organised, she could run a house and – as she had just proved – comfort a child, but storytelling was not something she had ever tried her hand at.

‘About her and Uncle Jack when they were little.' Becky wriggled onto her side, face expectant. ‘Tell me about when you were little, Sara.'

‘What about a fairy story instead? Cinderella maybe?'

‘No, a real one. Please?'

She could tell her the dream, Sara thought, and add a bit – where was the harm? ‘Well, let's see, then. When I was quite small I had a friend called . . . Ben. I dare say we used to quarrel sometimes, like you do with Sam, but if we did, I don't remember it. We always did things together. We used to go down to the creek – a big wide creek it was, with lots of gum trees and deep sand drifts – and dig there.'

‘Why?' Becky asked, eyes intent on Sara's face.

‘Because it was fun.' She
did
remember the sand, Sara was certain of it – the heat of it, the way it slid underfoot both hard and yielding. She raised her brows and sank her voice to a near whisper. ‘Maybe we were looking for treasure, or,' she said, resuming her normal voice, ‘making an underground cubby house. Sometimes . . .' She frowned, searching her imagination, almost seeing it, the way real storytellers must, she thought. ‘Sometimes we played under a great thick bush with yellow flowers on it. We made tunnels through it where only we could fit. Oh, and the dog —' Her body jerked and she suddenly knew she was speaking truth, that both dog and bush had been real, and the name she had arbitrarily picked for her companion too. ‘His name was –' she floundered – ‘Oh dear, I've forgotten, but anyway, Ben and the dog and I had all sorts of games there in the bush. It was our secret place. Nobody else knew about it.
We're going to play in the bush,
we'd say, and our mum always thought we meant in the paddo—'

The shock of it stopped her. Sara rose, her smile mechanical. ‘That's it, chicken. Maybe I'll think of something more later. Off to sleep now and I'll see you in the morning. If you want something nice to think about, remember that your gran and granddad are coming out soon. Won't that be lovely?'

‘Yes, I forgot about Nan and Pop.' Becky's eyes were drooping, she yawned. ‘'S'a nice story, Sara. Thank you.'

‘Sleep tight,' Sara switched off the light and returned in a daze to her own room, all hope of similar oblivion forgotten.

Sara woke from a fitful sleep broken by dreams whose content faded before the shrilling of the alarm. Jack, bringing the milk in, found her standing with a handful of cutlery before the half-set table while the kettle shrieked unnoticed behind her. He switched it off, heaved the bucket onto the bench and reached for the strainer.

‘Morning, Sara. Sleep well?'

‘Hmm? Oh, good morning, Jack.' She stared at the cutlery as if wondering how it had got there. Turning, she noticed the lack of flame. ‘Have we run out of gas?'

‘The kettle was boiling, I turned it off.' He narrowed his gaze. ‘You okay? You seem a bit distracted.'

‘I know, sorry.' She reached for the frying pan, then stopped. ‘Jack, last night I was talking to Becky. I wasn't even thinking, and it just —' She stopped.

He lowered the strainer. ‘You remembered something?'

‘A brother,' Sara said baldly. ‘I have a brother called Ben.' The electrifying knowledge still fizzed within her.
Our mum . . .
She had thought of nothing else since those words had escaped her mouth. She told him about the bush with the yellow flowers where they had played, and the nameless dog that had accompanied them.

‘How old were you?'

Reaching again for the pan and this time setting it on the gas, she considered the question. ‘Five or six? Old enough to be outside unsupervised if Stella really thought we were going to play in the house paddock. And that's another thing, she's a city woman, my mother. Where does a paddock come into it? And why has she never mentioned Ben?'

‘Aren't you a city woman too?' Jack poured carefully, his gaze on the strainer. ‘Your mother might have lived in the country, if only for a few weeks.'

‘I suppose,' she said doubtfully. ‘What about Ben, though? Why didn't she talk about him? She never did – not once!'

‘Perhaps he died? If he did, it might just have been too hard. Grief —'

‘No!' The protest was involuntary, then Sara shook her head, rebuking her reaction. ‘That's silly. Just because I don't want to believe it.' She stared at nothing. Could it be that simple? Had her brother been the adored son and she the disregarded second child whose continued existence had been seen as unforgivable when the favoured one perished? She supposed it was possible. Besides, if Ben lived, then where was he? The pan was too hot; the chops she couldn't remember placing in it were jumping and spitting. Sara turned them and lowered the gas, working on automatic. Her breath caught suddenly. ‘Jack, what if it was the car crash? I never thought of that before, whether anyone was killed in it. What if it was Ben?'

He had moved to the breadboard at the end of the table, and was cutting his lunch. ‘That's a thought but isn't it a bit unlikely? Wouldn't there have been some proof that he'd died? Photos, belongings she'd have kept?'

‘You don't know my mother! Stella doesn't have a sentimental bone in her body. She was bad tempered when my father died. Not sorry, not grieving – just cranky. Like he'd done it to spite her.'

‘She certainly sounds a hard case. Not like someone who couldn't stand to face reality, which means he probably wasn't involved. I don't know if that helps – but there's no proof he
did
die.'

‘So what's the alternative? I haven't seen him since I was six or seven. That I know. So she, what, abandoned him? Gave him away? I can't believe that, even of Stella. After all, there was no love lost between us, but she kept me.'

He was looking past her. ‘Morning, Squirt. You missed the milking.'

‘Becky.' Sara glanced at her. ‘Wash your face, chicken, then bring your brush. I'll do your hair.' Becky mumbled a greeting to them both, yawned, and continued on her way to the bathroom.

‘We could guess all day,' Jack said. ‘But what has any of it got to do with the bloke who was stalking you? That's what really puzzles me.' He gestured at the pile of sandwiches he'd made and the box of cling film, as close to sheepish as Sara had seen him. ‘You mind wrapping them for me? I'm all fingers and thumbs with that damn stuff, but you make it look easy. Thanks,' he said when she had done so. ‘Okay if I start? Only I've got a long day ahead of me.'

‘Of course. Go ahead.'

Becky was back with the brush. Sara gathered the child's hair up, split it and started to plait, her mind on what he had said. She had quite forgotten her stalker, but Jack was right in doubting that he could be connected to her past. Besides, his menace had insensibly dwindled with time and distance. If she had known Stella's whereabouts, Sara thought, whipping the band about the second plait, she would be tempted to return to Adelaide and demand the truth from her. The holidays started on Friday, after all. Only it would worry Beth if she left, however temporarily, and Stella could be literally anywhere.

Abandoning the idea with some reluctance, Sara sat down with Becky to eat breakfast.

Jack was gone before they finished. The day's routine took over and between dishes, teaching and cooking, Sara puzzled over the mystery of her missing brother. Logical though it was to assume he must have died, her heart rebelled against the thought. Perhaps, she theorised, he had been adopted for some reason by another family member? She could have innumerable relatives, from a complete set of grandparents down to third cousins, and be none the wiser. Never mind that she could think of no reason to support her idea. Ben
could
still be alive somewhere, unaware of her existence. But no, Sara frowned at the potato she was peeling, giving up that notion. She might have suffered amnesia but it beggared belief that he had too. All right – suppose somebody had told him she was dead? A kid would believe that. But why would anyone do so? Gouging at an eye on the spud, Sara sighed in frustration; whatever road her thoughts ran down they always reached the same dead end. Anything, admittedly, was possible, but it still had to make sense and none of this did.

The day was gone before she knew it, but then the silent un­answerable questions kept posing themselves throughout the week. She helped Becky make a collage for a school project and they did a simple cooking lesson together, making pancakes for lunch. Becky, tummy swathed in a large tea towel, insisted on tossing her first effort in the air and shot it into the sink, watching in open-mouthed horror as it sank into sudsy water. Sara tutted, trying not to laugh, and turned the next one, catching all but the edge of it, which fell onto the stove burner.

‘Whoops! Not easy, is it?' She snatched up the spatula to scoop it from the flame and melted the edge of the plastic. ‘Damn! Whose mad idea was this, Becky?'

‘Mrs Murray's,' the girl said literally. ‘I'll tell her you dropped one.'

‘Well,
I'll
tell her you chucked yours in the sink,' Sara threatened and they both laughed. ‘Just as well your mum's not here to see the mess we're making.'

Later, with school over, Becky took the feed to the horses while Sara walked through the brilliant light of mid-afternoon to the fowl house to collect the eggs. The station complex had become so familiar to her that it scarcely registered, but today for some reason it did. She stood outside the netting door watching the stick figure that was Becky walking slowly towards the horses. The sheds were rectang­ular blocks, rusty-roofed caves of darkness. The sparsely leafed tree at the end of the vehicle shed was a caricature of vegetation, the mill a skeleton of steel, enveloped by barren red sand. The sky glittered so brightly it forced her to squint.

Grateful for the thick, wide brim of her straw hat, Sara ducked her head and moved thankfully under the iron roof to the nest boxes. These were square plastic drums that had once held liquid of some sort – oil or chemicals, she supposed. One side had been cut from them and they were lined with a mixture of shredded paper and dried lawn clippings that gave off a musty smell. Sara reached for the three eggs visible in the first box, and glimpsed more in the others. The hens were still laying well, though Beth had said the supply would stop when they entered the moult in summer. She took off her hat, laid the first three gently in its crown and suffered an instance of deja vu so powerful that she knew it had to be another memory.

Somewhere long ago she had done this before. Standing rigid with closed eyes, Sara inhaled the smell of the grass and the ammoniac reek of the pen, and saw a smaller hand lifting the brown eggs carefully – oh, so carefully – and placing them singly in the hat clutched to her chest. Her smaller self was singing just below her breath:
Gentle, gentle, one at a time.
A mantra that somebody must have taught her before entrusting her with this very task
.
Opening her eyes, Sara gazed at the eggs, marvelling, as she had then, at their perfect ovoid shape and freckled shells. Stunned by the revelation, she moved down the row of nest boxes, transferring their offerings to her hat, then returned to the house not even feeling the burn of the sun on her uncovered head.

Beth continued to ring each evening, though the news on Sam hardly varied until Thursday when Jack, taking the call, had responded with a wild, ‘Whackydoo, sis! Way to go!'

Both Sara and Becky had crowded into the office then, silently demanding the reason for his outburst. He'd held the receiver against his shirt, a wide grin on his face. ‘He's outta ICU. They moved him to the ward today.'

Relief flooded Sara but Becky had looked confused. ‘What's that mean?'

‘That he's not so sick any more, chicken. He's really getting better now.'

‘So he and Mum'll be home soon?'

‘Well, it might be a while yet,' Sara cautioned. ‘Maybe by the end of the holidays.'

‘How long's that?'

‘Not long. They start on Saturday.'

‘That's
ages!
' Becky was not impressed.

‘The time will soon go. It's mail day again tomorrow. You can show Harry your collage.'

Harry, however, wasn't their only arrival with the mail; when Becky scampered out to meet him, she checked her pace for an instant, then raced straight past the one-armed man to fling herself at the beloved figure alighting from the passenger-side door.

‘Dad! You're back! You never said you were coming.'

‘Hi, Becs.' Len swung her up in his arms, pendulous cheeks plumping with a fond smile as he kissed her. ‘I didn't know myself till pretty late last night. How've you been? Mum said to give you a big hug from her.' He wrapped his arms about her wriggling body as he spoke. ‘There, straight from her to you. We've been missing you.' He put her down and pulled out his bag. ‘How's Sara? And your uncle?'

‘She's making the tea. Uncle Jack's gone 'dozing today. Is Sam coming home soon?'

‘We hope so. Come on. My belly feels like my throat's cut. Where's this tea?'

Holding his big hand, chattering excitedly, Becky led him to the house, leaving his side only at the steps, which she raced up before him to yell, ‘Sara, you'll never guess! Dad's come home!'