The Desert Midwife

by Fiona McArthur

  ‘It was a bit bumpy,’ she murmured as she drove.

  ‘Always bumpy, stumbling into a roll along the strip because the air pockets are tricky and the plane always wobbles, or so I’m told.’

  ‘Don’t stop,’ she said.

  He grinned to himself. ‘We can see the airport building coming up now – actually it’s more of a shed – and there’s a wire fence at the side, and Indigenous kids behind the wire are jumping and waving at the plane. A dozen people are waiting out the front. Waving. Excited to greet passengers coming home.

  ‘Finally, we stop adjacent to them with a little jerk.’

  ‘Are we the last off?’

  ‘We are. We’re the last off, and the heat hits us like that oven door has just opened and the blast of it almost singes our eyebrows. You don’t notice the humidity for a while. Just the heat of it.’

  ‘Worse than here?’

  ‘I haven’t felt it like that here.’

  ‘Don’t let me stop you. Go on.’

  ‘Through the fence the kids are screaming with enthusiasm and families gather and hug and laugh, but we don’t know anyone, so we follow the tide through the shed and out the other side to the lawn behind it to wait for the luggage. It takes a good fifteen minutes. There’s one big frangipani tree that offers the only shade and we all move like cows in the heat to find a position under the branches.’

  ‘You might have moved like a cow, but I moved like a dancer.’

  He laughed. He loved that answer, he reassured himself. But suddenly he was unsure, jolted out of the game. He would be leaving, there was no doubt about that, so why was he was flirting with this woman?

  ‘Your turn,’ he told her. Please. What was it about her that drew him? Had drawn him in the time he couldn’t remember. ‘Where is your favourite place to work?’

  ‘Yulara.’ She glanced at him very briefly. ‘Except when dust storms hit and accident victims with head injuries remain unconscious and threaten to die on me.’ The answer came promptly, ironically, and he had to smile.

  ‘Yes. I imagine that would have been stressful. Just keeping you on your toes.’

  ‘I’ll say.’ She shook her head. ‘Attention seeker. I’ll sleep for a week when I get home.’

  Leaning his head back against the seat, he continued watching her expressions. He needed to stop beating himself up about the lack of future between them because she must understand. And she intrigued him. ‘What is it about Yulara that you love?’

  ‘The proximity to Uluru,’ she said in another prompt reply. There was no hesitation, only a warm, rich feeling in her voice. ‘It’s a magical place. Something people don’t believe until they’ve been there.’ There was no holding back with her. No artifice. ‘The Anangu people are great. I have wonderful friends there. My best friend is an artist and traditional healer, and her husband is a dancer and teaches didgeridoo.’ She laughed. ‘He was born in Melbourne – Uluru is not didgeridoo country.

  ‘I love all the communities, but I feel connected to the Anangu people for some reason. The artwork, the bush medicine, the desert, the sky at night. Very good friends like Denise, who works at the cultural centre.’ She gestured with one arm to the desert they skimmed along the edge of. ‘This is Albert Namatjira’s country.’ This time she glanced at him and her cheeks were dusted with pink. ‘Sorry. I get passionate about the centre.’

  He wished he could feel so enthused about something, but that too would pass, he was sure. It had to, because everything changes eventually. Early on in their marriage, Roslyn used to say she loved his enthusiasm. But that changed. He pulled his thoughts away from that dark hole. ‘There’s nothing wrong with passion. It’s clear in your voice.’ It had been years since he’d had that kind of passion and it was nice to know it still existed. He felt himself being more drawn towards her, and thought, To hell with it, I’m not going to fight it any longer.

  Feeling a sort of release, he relaxed even more into his seat. ‘Tell me more about the Anangu people – more about them that you admire.’

  She wrinkled her brow. ‘Aren’t you sick of listening to me?’

  ‘No.’ He wondered if he ever could be, and the thought brought a puzzling mix of fear and hope and guilt: standalone emotions he didn’t need to feel all at once. But that was what he suspected summed up Ava May. Feeling. All or nothing. He’d lost faith that he had the kind of fearlessness she seemed to have.

  She shrugged and went on, her eyes scanning ahead, their speed along the strip of tar steady and eating up the distance towards their destination. ‘The Anangu have been the custodians of this desert around Uluru and down south for a very long time. I guess it’s their resilience and ability to change that I admire so much. They believe the responsibility for keeping the land safe lies with them. I do too.’

  She slowed to steer carefully around a lump on the hot tar in front of them. When he glanced back, he saw it was an echidna, uncurling to keep crossing the road. She grinned at him. ‘They call him the Tjilkamata in Pitjantjatjara.’

  ‘Tjilkamata.’ He stumbled a little over the pronunciation, unlike her. ‘Great word,’ he said. ‘Though I like that in the English language baby echidnas are called puggles.’

  She laughed. ‘I did not know that.’

  ‘So tell me more about the Anangu.’

  ‘Well, as custodians, they guide and welcome those who visit the national park, wishing them safety and helping them with Indigenous teachings to appreciate the sacredness of their world. Uluru and its surrounds are a lot like non-Indigenous people expect a cathedral or mosque to be – sacred.’

  ‘That’s reasonable.’ But not always true, he thought.

  ‘The Anangu believe in the creation of the region by ancestral beings, and that they are direct descendants of those beings. They care for the land using their Tjukurpa – Anangu laws.’

  He could see from her profile that she was reliving memories and concepts she’d spent time considering.

  He considered it too. ‘I still think they must find it pretty hard to get that across in today’s society.’

  ‘Yes, it’s ongoing, but their people are finding ways to gain support from the government now. Fewer tourists are climbing Uluru – it will be closed completely to climbing soon – and more are hearing the stories and walking the base track.’

  He remembered something she’d said earlier and asked, ‘Is that why you walk the base? To respect the local communities?’

  ‘I have no need to climb Uluru, the same as I wouldn’t want to climb Westminster Abbey. If an elder offers to show me the beauty of a hidden spot, though, I am respectfully thrilled. The Anangu have immense and detailed knowledge of everything in the history of the park. The flora, fauna, habitats, seasonal changes and landscapes. Even today, a lot of this knowledge remains unrecorded. That’s why conserving oral history and tradition is vital to the wellbeing of Anangu culture, and to the ongoing management of the park.’ She waved her hand. ‘I warned you. I get emotive.’

  ‘You know a lot about it.’

  She scoffed. ‘That’s only the tip of the iceberg. Or out here, the tip of Uluru. The biggest part is underground and can’t be seen.’

  He turned to look ahead at the red earth and scrub that never seemed to end. It felt like the two of them were on a deserted planet of ochre sand and blue sky. Leaning his head back, he mused, ‘What was it like growing up in the centre?’

  ‘Hot in the day and cold at night. Wonderful. An adventure.’ She gestured with her arm. ‘Being blessed by good fortune despite the constant threat of drought. Great people. Diverse people: on the stations, in the communities, and the travellers passing through.’ She shrugged.

  The answer was a good one. Open and giving, like her. Right then, he fell a little more under her spell. ‘So how did Setabilly Station start?’ he asked.

  She gave him another one of her smiles. ‘My great-grandfather’s family settled there. Then my grandparents met in Alice, when Granny Mim was nursing. Pop
s had been thrown from a camel, in a race. She said it was love at first sight. We think he saw an indomitable woman to found his dynasty with and pounced on her. He was second generation on Setabilly.’

  He watched her face soften as she talked about her grandparents.

  ‘My grandmother, Granny Mim, is up to my chin, but she’s the toughest woman I know.’ She laughed. ‘At seventy-eight, she’s tougher even than my mother, who’s a force to be reckoned with. I followed both their footsteps to become a nurse and my own to become a midwife.’

  And matched their toughness, he thought, that’s clear. He enjoyed watching her. She made him smile inside, and the more time he spent with her, the clearer his attraction to her became. It was so easy, so natural to spend time with her. ‘What happened when they fell in love?’

  She laughed as if it was a much-repeated story. ‘My grandfather took Granny Mim back to Setabilly when it was nothing but a stone croft and a windmill from the bore. Just a lot of barren-looking land that could hold a mob of cattle and keep them alive as long as it rained. She thrived, and anything he could do, she mastered as well.

  ‘She loves a challenge and says she always will. It’s diverse country. Borderline. Has extreme heat in the summer, a brief wet season like the Top End, and a high mountain range that runs with waterfalls when it rains – though that’s rare. I love the glory of it. With a passion.’

  She swept her arm out to the side, where the distance stretched endlessly away from the road into the never-never. ‘Unfortunately, we’ve had a run of poor rainfall years and need a major injection of cash. Mum and I use our wages to help, but that’s still only providing the bare essentials. Plus, there’s a limit my family will let me give.’

  They were quiet for a few minutes as he allowed that to sink in. The scope of the past, the trials of the future, the meaning of family supporting family. Someone was missing, however. ‘What about your father? You haven’t mentioned him.’

  ‘My dad died not long after my brother was born. He was a policeman in Sydney and Mum moved us to Granny Mim and Pop’s after he died, so we grew up on the station. Then, ten years ago, my grandfather was killed in a gyrocopter accident, mustering cattle.’ Her voice softened with the remembered distress.

  ‘I’m sorry. That must have been devastating.’

  She sighed. ‘It changed everything. My brother was only fourteen, I was fifteen. Suddenly, Granny Mim and my mother had to run the station. We would have gone under without the support of the Aboriginal families who worked with us, and the families from the other stations.

  ‘Granny Mim’s heart hasn’t really recovered, but she certainly stepped up to running the show. And she was doing really well until the big drought eight years ago. We had an extra two thousand head, and winter coming on with no feed. Granny Mim took a crew and my brother, and they went droving for six months. She home-schooled him along the way, but it was hard for her without my grandfather. He was larger than life and as tough as old leather – you had to be, in the times they lived. But they made it through with the cattle, and the money from the sales saved our home.’

  He had no concept of that sort of physical determination, and now he’d met a whole family capable of it. ‘It’s a tale of amazing people, and you’re a part of it. You have a proud family history stretching behind you.’ Which was even more reason for him not to pursue her. She’d never leave here. ‘Have you ever wanted to live anywhere else?’

  ‘No, but sometimes I hanker to join the RFDS and see more of the north. Like Arnhem Land.’ She grinned at him. ‘Like Weipa. But I need to be closer and not away too much as Granny Mim gets older.’

  He thought about her in that role. ‘You’d be good as a flight nurse. An asset.’ He’d looked at RFDS too before he’d started the locum gig. But it would have meant commitment, and for the moment he needed to be free to run when he felt it necessary.

  Except for some reason, Ava might have made him want to stay.

  Just then Ava pushed the indicator and began to pull over. She parked under one of the rare trees at the side of the long-deserted road.

  ‘We’ve been driving for an hour and a half. Let’s walk for a minute. I make myself do it. It only takes sixty seconds to sharpen your senses again.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ava

  The ground crunched underfoot as she walked away from the car, and she savoured the stretch to her legs.

  A burnt-orange lizard scuttled under a leaf beside her and she heard a bird shift leaves to watch with hungry eyes. Then she saw the cross she’d forgotten about. The white roadside crucifix with dusty, faded silk flowers at the side of the tree.

  Zac was slower out of the car, but as soon as he saw the marker he stopped, closed his eyes and turned away.

  Damn. Of course that would hurt. She felt like stomping her foot. Damn, damn. She’d reminded him of his wife when he was already fragile. ‘Sorry, Zac. I’d forgotten about that.’ She said it softly, not really to him, aware she could only make it worse by pointing out she’d noticed his distress.

  He heard her. ‘No. They’re everywhere and I know why. I agree they should be if it will slow some other silly bugger down and save a life.’

  They had their own example of this just four days ago. But there was no use talking about that now since he couldn’t remember. ‘Was someone speeding when you were in the accident with your wife?’ She hoped it hadn’t been him. For his sake. If he wanted to talk, she’d listen.

  ‘Yes.’ And as though he’d heard her question, he added, ‘Not me. But we were all travelling motorway speed.’

  ‘Let’s walk for another two minutes.’ Out of the car or house was better for emotion, her grandmother always said. ‘Where did you meet her?’ She didn’t know why she asked – probably because she wanted to change the subject from the accident – but she regretted it now that the words hung between them like a dark little cloud. If she’d thought before she opened her mouth, she probably didn’t want to know more about his wonderful dead wife.

  He fell into step beside her along the deserted road. ‘I knew my wife since we were children. She was beautiful even as a child, vivacious and my friend, and we were destined to marry. It was a steady progression. Roslyn’s parents were distant business associates of my father’s and it all began to cement into permanence with ridiculous ease.

  ‘Before we knew it, we were post-wedding, and sadly we drifted apart far too quickly. I dived into work, and she disappeared back into the social whirl she’d come from. We smiled at each other at breakfast or dinner, whichever one of those events we occasionally met at, until one day I realised I’d let her down. We’d lost each other in the rush of life.’

  Ava glanced at him and then away. You couldn’t lose people if you lived on a remote station together. They were all you had. She didn’t understand his dilemma but had seen it happen in Alice. ‘And then you had the accident?’

  ‘A romantic trip to the Blue Mountains to try to salvage the warmth of our marriage. That ended in the middle of a six-car pile-up with Roslyn comatose. If she hadn’t married me, she’d still be alive. I’m sure her parents think so, too.’

  ‘That’s crap and you know it.’ There was a trace of impatience in her voice and she reined it in. ‘I don’t subscribe to that theory.’ You can’t explain it, you can’t change it, you just have to learn from it. These were her grandmother’s words, and Ava agreed with them. ‘I think we make our own luck. Or what happens to us teaches us a skill we need for later.’

  He kicked a rock and it skidded across the road and disappeared into the bush. ‘Well, I was lucky and she wasn’t,’ he said. ‘She never woke up. I respected her parents’ wishes for prolonged life support, but I hated it.’

  ‘She’s at rest now.’

  He nodded and glanced back at the tree and its marker. ‘And I share a story of loss with those little crosses all over Australia. I’m not special for being there.’

  ‘Were you hurt?’

&
nbsp; ‘Barely. But Roslyn’s head injury was obvious. Frontal lobe.’ He blinked rapidly and she put her hand out to steady him as he swayed. His face drained of colour until it was as white as the cross at the roadside.

  ‘Enough walking,’ she said and steered him until he leaned against the car.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ll never lose that picture. Everything went dark for a minute there.’

  ‘We walked too far.’ Or grief could do odd things. She opened the door and nudged him to sit. ‘Do me a favour and have a drink. You’re an interesting shade of pale.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said again as she closed his door.

  Shock from his recent accident combined with grief, Ava thought as she climbed in and started the engine. She’d been there. She thought of the flawlessness of her infant daughter, Amelia, as she lay in her tiny white coffin. Pale-pink lace around her alabaster face of unmoving perfection. Cold porcelain fingers that lay still and straight against her own trembling palm.

  That picture would never leave her, either. She’d never shared it. Yet now seemed a good time. ‘Five years ago, I lost my daughter, Amelia. She was ten weeks premature, and by the time I was flown to Alice we couldn’t stop the labour. She died from necrotising enterocolitis. The lining of her bowel was just too injured when we started the feeding and she passed away at six weeks.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. She didn’t look to see his expression, but she heard understanding in his voice. ‘You’ve known loss.’

  Well, he would understand, wouldn’t he? ‘She was perfect,’ she said softly. ‘My family were amazing. It took me six months before I could go back to work and twelve before I could go back to midwifery. But I’ve found peace. And I wouldn’t change it to avoid having gone through the pain if it meant not meeting her – even for that brief time.’