The First Week (21 page)

But something was wrong. The taste of the water on her lips was wrong.

The water was brackish, salt where no salt should be.

The boys called out to her and she splashed over to them, dazed.

For them, this was enough. This was a river. They saw nothing wrong, would never know that a river should smell of reeds and mud and fresh sweet water.

They were the salt generation.

Later she asked her mother about it.

Oh yes. Has to be treated now, or mixed with water from somewhere else. I'm not sure what they ended up doing.

Marian thought about the land near the south-east boundary, where it fell away. Their side of the fence from the Native Title claim. It was a mess. The few remaining trees had died, become grey ghosts. That was good pasture when they first cleared the paddock, the year she and Mac married.

Impossible to say exactly when it had died. It was a slow receding, year by year. Like her father's hair. The bald salty old skull gradually emerged, scabbed and flaking. The grass died, the trees died.

Maybe the lucerne would work. And Brian had planted oil mallees across the slope to stop it getting any worse. Marian couldn't see any money in oil though and there was some hold-up with the processing plant. It wasn't straightforward. And with everyone doing it there'd soon be a glut. The world couldn't need all that much eucalyptus oil.

What if she got stuck into the bottom part, the real problem area? Planted salt-resistant wattles, and bigger trees around the edge, contained the damage, soaked up the ground water.

Could she get any help? Volunteers?

The Noongar group that had the claim in, they could be interested in doing something.

Lee might have contacts. Maybe Aunty Rene would know someone. Didn't she work with young men? Well here was plenty of work for young men.

But they'd have to be paid, she couldn't ask them to do it for nothing. Expect them to help fix the bloody mess.

Dear Lee, you're right. There's not much we haven't fucked up. We took your land and we've damn near destroyed it. We need you. Please come and help before it's too late.

Some sort of action, that was the thing, they needed to do something positive. Now, while their lives were turned inside out. Cut across all the old habits. The old thinking.

‘How do you feel about farming, Brian?'

Brian blinked. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Have you ever thought about doing something else? Is it what you really want to do?'

‘God, Mum. That's a big question.'

‘After your father died …' Marian hesitated. They'd never talked about this before, never talked about anything, if it came to that, except farm business. ‘I always felt a bit guilty. Maybe you would have liked to stay at school?'

‘You needed help,' he said flatly.

Oh hell. It was true. She'd mucked up his life too.

Marian cleared her throat. ‘I'm sorry. I should have paid someone. Not just depended on you.' But they wouldn't have been able to afford it. There were bad years, prices down, and she was trying to learn everything at once.

She persevered. ‘But if you had a chance now, what would you do?'

There was a pause.

‘It's funny you ask,' he said slowly. ‘I was going to talk to you about it. I've been mulling it over. Then this business with Charlie blew up.'

‘Mulling what over?' Marian asked, jolted. A week ago she wouldn't have dreamed that he had any ideas beyond the farm.

Did she want to hear this? But she had to know now.

‘It's Tom.'

‘Tom?' she asked, mind blank.

‘God, Mum. Michelle's Dad. Anyhow, he's asked me if I want to go into the business. You know. Learn it before he retires. Take over.'

Marian was stunned.

She had thought the last week was as bad as it could get. But that was only the beginning, she realised now, seeing vistas of trees toppling, walls crumbling,
For Sale
signs flapping. Everyone else would move on without her. It was a cold trickle of loneliness.

He was going. She'd lost them both.

What had she thought, when she asked him? Hoped he would say
I love farming, Mum, and I'll never leave you
?

She tried to concentrate on the practical issues. The machinery part of it would suit him.

Brian splayed his fingers out on the steering wheel, stretched them, then gripped the wheel again more tightly.

‘It's a solid company,' he said.

Marian recognised the pleading note in his voice. This was something he really wanted.

‘What about the business side, the paperwork?' she asked, staring straight ahead, unwilling to look at him. ‘Accounts and all that?'

‘How different can it be from running a farm? I'll learn. I used to like that stuff at school.'

‘What does Michelle think?' No need to ask. Michelle had never taken to farm life.

‘She wants me to do it. She'd like to move back to town.'

Move. Marian suppressed panic. ‘Move to Albany?'

‘Yes. But I hadn't got that far. Not without talking to you, seeing what you want to do.'

They'd obviously talked it through, he and Michelle. A wave of bitterness rose in Marian.

‘It would make things easier now to be in Albany,' Brian went on. ‘For the kids especially. It's a big town, more anonymous.'

It took Marian a moment to realise what he meant. Now. Now that they were a murderer's family.

‘We could take Michelle's name,' he said, staring straight ahead.

The ringing in her ears was so loud that she could hear nothing except the thud of her own heart. He was disowning them. Her and Charlie.

Brian was back to the question of the job. ‘It would mean a fair bit of driving if we stayed at the farm. Might be all right at first. I'd be on the road anyway.'

Marian gazed out the window, eyes hot, trying to focus on the paddocks, counting telegraph poles.

‘Mum?'

‘Mm.'

‘Are you okay?'

‘I'm trying to take it in.'

‘I know it's not a good time to tell you.'

‘No. It's not.' She dragged out a hanky and blew her nose.

‘Sorry.'

‘Oh well. When will it ever be a good time? Charlie's thrown us in the deep end. We just have to keep swimming.'

Brian spoke after a long silence filled only with the noise of the car.

‘Would you think of retiring?' he asked. ‘Selling up?'

Admitting defeat.

Maybe she needed more than just a programme for young men to do landcare. Maybe it was time to sell the whole place back to the Noongars. But how could you demand money for something you'd fucked up? We took the land, we ripped the guts out of it.
Now we want to sell it back to you.

‘We should give the farm back. For nothing.'

Brian swerved violently and swore. ‘What do you mean? Who to?'

‘To the Aboriginal people. The Noongar Corporation I suppose.'

‘Jesus Christ, Mum. You can't give land away.'

‘Why not?'

‘It's not that simple … you can't …'

‘We took it in the first place. Why not just give it back?'

‘Free? You're barking. What about the money we owe the bank?'

‘But we did, didn't we? Take the land.'

‘We did not. We didn't take anything. Grandpa's family paid good money for it. Not to mention the hard work.'

‘All right, all right. Don't panic. I'm only saying we should do something.'

‘You start trying to help those people and you'll never hear the end of it. A dry sponge, that's what they are.'

‘That's not fair, Brian.'

But it was exactly what she'd thought herself before she met Lee.

‘You can't turn back the bloody clock, you know,' Brian said. ‘Okay, maybe it wasn't always fair, but you can't change that now. They don't even want the land.'

‘How do you know?'

‘They're not farmers. It would all go to rack and ruin.'

‘You don't know that, Brian. And anyhow, what we call rack and ruin might be a lot better for the land. Give it a chance to recover, regrow, reabsorb the salt.'

Brian grunted.

‘Well you're the one that got the revegetation going.'

‘Yeah. I know.' He pushed back into the seat to stretch his shoulders, arms straight on the steering wheel.

‘I think about Grandpa sometimes,' he said. ‘And Dad too. How they sweated over the clearing. I can remember that last stretch, down by the creek.'

Two small figures, dancing round the burning windrows in unholy glee.

‘Yes. You loved the fires.'

‘And now we're replanting it all. They must be turning in their graves, Dad and Grandpa. And it might be too late anyway.'

‘Don't say that. It can't be too late.'

The road unrolled in front of them, kilometre after kilometre. Marian shut her eyes and concentrated on the hum.

‘Those Aboriginal organisations do buy properties sometimes, it's true,' Brian said. He'd obviously been thinking. ‘I've heard of it. Could be a proposition. They probably get bloody grants,' he added.

Suddenly it was all too much for Marian. Sell the farm and go away? Where to?

‘I don't know. It's all a bit too soon for me. I can't think straight.'

She saw the droop in his face. ‘It's okay, Brian. I don't want to stand in your way. Give me a few weeks, all right?'

‘Yeah, of course. Nothing will happen until next year anyway. I told Tom that already.'

‘Can we talk about it again? With Michelle too,' she added, swallowing her pride.

Jeb was at Michelle and Brian's house. Once he would have followed her car the extra kilometre, barking joyfully. But his racing days were over. Marian moved over into the driver's seat while Brian helped the dog clamber in beside her.

‘Come over soon,' Michelle said. ‘Any time.'

She and Brian stood side by side while Marian drove off.

The house was cold and unlived in. Marian turned on the kitchen light and dropped her bag on a chair. Someone had finished washing the china. It was stacked on the bench with a clean tea towel draped over it. Michelle. Bless her.

The mail was piled neatly in the middle of the table. Mostly bills, circulars. Pushed to one side was an envelope marked
Department of Corrective Services
. The address was scrawled in Charlie's childish writing.

Marian sat down, breathless.

Jeb pushed his head onto her knee.

‘I have to read it, old boy. Whatever it says, I have to live with it.'

A cup of tea would be good. But she couldn't make herself get up again. She leaned on the table with the letter in her hand.

Get on with it.

Wriggling her finger under the flap she pulled out the letter. A single sheet. She turned it over. Nothing on the back. No date, no greeting on the front.

They sweep down through the clouds. They belong to the night and the high places. They watch from the hidden folds of time.

Their wings beat around our heads. We are deafened with the roaring.

Woe woe woe cry the beasts of the air. A time of tribulation has come upon the earth. The forces of darkness gather at the throne. All the plagues are loosed upon us. The ground itself is broken open and the sickness will last a thousand years. None will be spared. The baby at the breast will be devoured as it suckles. The young will couple in vain. There will be no more children. The last generation of men will die. The belly of the serpent will split and the righteous will come forth. But their mouths will be closed and their lives will be cut short.

A mighty earthquake will bring down the palaces and let loose the demons and vile spirits that dwell therein. A star bigger than the sun will strike the earth with the power of a million armed horsemen. The rivers will flow with blood and the face of the moon will be covered. A god with eyes of flame and the wings of an eagle and thunder in his mouth will destroy with one blow the marketplaces and brothels. The infernal machinery will be sealed forever in the bottomless pit. Those who have traded in the substance of life will be struck down. The tainted money will be ash in their mouths. The horned beast will writhe in its own entrails.

Marian put the sheet of paper on the table, took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes.

Was it some sort of code? In poetry?

He was trying to tell her something. Was he?
The baby at the breast
, being devoured, was that him?

What was
the sickness that will last a thousand years
? Did he mean the salt? No. It must be uranium. No doubt he was on to that as well. Any protest that was going.

So what were
the forces of darkness
? It must be that bloody
Lord of the Rings
.

Marian was furious. Suddenly and helplessly furious.

Everyone, everyone, was blaming themselves for what he'd done, for two deaths, so many lives ruined.

Everyone was blaming themselves. Except him, because he was busy with some hocus pocus bullshit out of the
Bible
, or
Lord of the Rings
, or somewhere. Some bloody fantasy.

She looked at the paper again.

Maybe he really had flipped? What did they call it? A psychotic episode.

No. She didn't believe it.

Charlie wasn't mad. He was having a go at her, leading her on. Pretending that he was going to trust her, tell her what was going on, write her a sensible letter. And then writing something that would make everyone think he was mad as a hatter.

How dare he!
HOW DARE HE!
She crashed her fist down on the table and Jeb jumped away, whimpering.

Marian put her head down on her arms and wept. ‘I'm sorry, Jeb,' she sobbed. ‘I'm so sorry.'