The doctor had started by asking questions and ticking them off his list. Daphne answered dutifully, but she disliked the doctor’s cool impersonal manner, the way he stared right through her as if she wasn’t really there, querying symptoms without truly wanting to know. He is Pam’s doctor after all, and Daphne supposes she shouldn’t expect much of such a fresh-faced youngster.
Her favourite doctor retired a few years ago. That’s what happens when you are old: your compatriots age too. They give up their jobs because they have their own health issues. Good doctors retire to armchairs and become files in other doctors’ surgeries. Then you have to see someone else—someone young with attitude and arrogance. They think they know everything, and they have no patience. They are bored, and they talk through you, and they spend half the time glancing sidelong at their iPhone on the desk, wanting you out of there so they can check their messages. That is what this doctor of Pam’s is like.
Then Daphne must have given a wrong answer. The doctor’s drooping posture disappeared and suddenly an attentive young man sat up in his place. ‘What did you say?’
Daphne had shifted uncomfortably in the hard vinyl chair. She gave the answer again, and the doctor’s clean young brow twisted in thought. He checked her over again, peppered her with a barrage of other questions, then he started tapping words into his computer, his fingers flying over the keys. It seems all young things know how to touch-type these days.
Now, outside the surgery, Daphne looks down at the envelope the doctor has given her—a referral. On the front he has written an address and phone number in blue pen, the letters pressed deep and dark into the paper with a scrawly, heavy hand. Daphne wonders what she should do with it. Tell Pam and ring for an appointment? She looks back at the wattlebird as it continues to dip and sip from the Coke can. The world is going crazy, including the birds.
She thinks of her home in the valley, wishes she was there right now, back in the mountains where she lived for so many years. Pam is taking her there this afternoon. They are leaving soon, after this appointment which is now finished. It’s a good thing. It will give her time to consider.
She thinks of her husband, Doug. How the land shaped him. How he loved it. Part of his bones, he said. And it is true . . . or at least she assumes it to be. Who knows where he rests. He is up there somewhere, that much is certain, and definitely dead—there’s no question of that, even though he was never found.
She feels the weight of the envelope in her hand. Does she want to go through all these tests? Probes stuck onto her? Into her? The possibility of surgery? Absolutely not. She’d rather let things happen as they will. Her mind is good, and she’s still healthy—at least she was until today. But she’s eighty-six and she can’t live forever. If heaven exists, Doug will be waiting for her.
She thinks of her daughter Pam, a thoughtful girl—or rather not a girl, but an ageing woman now too: a grandmother. She thinks of her granddaughter, Sandy, whose three children make Daphne a great-grandmother. She never thought she would have all this, thought she’d be dead long before, like Doug. Perhaps she should have gone when he did. It might have been easier. Is she in the way? A burden? She’s certainly not much use to anyone anymore.
She examines the referral again. Maybe she should ignore it. Perhaps she should let things run their course, live fully and well until nature takes her.
She walks across the car park, past the wattlebird, which is still drinking. She crosses the road to the supermarket where Pam is picking up a few things for lunch out in the valley. On the footpath near the sliding doors she hovers. She’ll wait outside. Pam shouldn’t be long.
Just outside the supermarket there is a bin. Daphne looks at the envelope, looks at the bin. Then she walks over and drops the envelope in.
They drive out to the valley in Pam’s car, winding through the suburbs. There is no convincing short cut, and they must pass through many traffic lights: stop, start, stop, start. Pam complains about waiting due to the lack of synchronisation, but Daphne is sure synchronisation is an urban myth. Life is dictated by road sensors and luck. While Pam fusses and frets, Daphne is patient, accepting. This is something she has learned with age.
Beyond the housing estates at the southern edge of the city they drive past grey paddocks dotted with bored cattle and dirty brown sheep. This is the colour of the drought. Daphne is sure it was wetter when she lived out here. They had dry times of course, but she can’t recall anything like this. She doesn’t know whether she believes in global warming or not, but perhaps she is looking at it now.
The drive lulls her, the way the road curls through hills and over dips, threading away from the city. It’s spacious out here, rugged and harsh and spare, country that breeds tough people: people hard on the exterior, but with soft buttery hearts and a strong attachment to the land. None of them ever wanted to leave, but what say had they, in the end, when the government bought back the land? A signature on a piece of paper and your rights are removed. And what do you do when everyone is gone? You can’t stay on like a lone grasshopper in the snow. You have to transfer your lives elsewhere. But it’s not the same to live among concrete and street trees and air-conditioning. Yes, you soften with luxury, but it’s not what you want.
She always feels good when they drive through the gates and into the national park, car tyres juddering over the cattle grid. Once a month, Pam brings her on this pilgrimage. It’s a nice thing Pam does for her. Better than a café or an art gallery.
Pam drives as far as she can, wending slowly through the park. On one side of the road, the bush grows down to the verge, all glossy and fragrant, the sharp tang of eucalypts and mint bush. On the other side, the valley spreads. It is wide at the park entry, visible only in patches between the trees. As the valley progresses, it narrows, pulling its long arms in and tucking them beneath its waist. There were fewer trees when Daphne lived here. These days the bush is creeping back down-slope from the forest. It is taking over again, reclaiming the margins that were so hard fought for by her family.
Pam pulls up at the locked gate above the old homestead. It would be useful to have keys for the gate so they could drive down the long track to the building, but Pam is reluctant to ask at the parks office, and Daphne is still too miffed about losing her family property to beg for access to land that should rightfully be hers. They get out of the car and Pam retrieves the folding chair from the back seat. As they walk through the wooden chicane and slowly down the track, reclining kangaroos heft onto their feet and bounce away. Watching them, Daphne stumbles on the uneven ground, scattering piles of dried dung. Every time she comes here, it is the same. She can’t believe the number of kangaroos. There are always joeys in pouches, always young ones at foot, following their mothers.
When finally they are down by the old slab homestead, quite some distance from the car, Pam sets up the folding chair in the lee out of the wind, then she pats Daphne on the shoulder and walks back up the track. She likes to give Daphne her space, and Daphne appreciates it—she’s freer to let her thoughts wander when she’s on her own. While she has her fill of valley-time, Pam will sit in the car up at the road and read, maybe even take a nap.
Daphne settles in her chair and looks around. She is always disappointed at first. What she sees initially is the decay: the crumbling yards, the collapsing sheds, the fallen chimney further up the hill where the brick house once stood. And the weeds! The overgrazing, thanks to all those kangaroos! Who says farmers don’t take care of the land? When she lived here, the place looked better than this.
But soon she begins to look wider and deeper, and memory distorts her vision. She starts to see what she wants to see, rather than what is actually here. She sees the slab homestead as it used to be, with its kitchen block out the back, smoke threading from the chimney, the fire always lit. She sees the horses in the yards, the black cattle scattered across the valley like crumbs of burnt toast. She sees Doug riding his horse, the dogs following. She sees her father,
further back in her memory, hustling a mob of cattle, her mother on the veranda hanging washing, the sheets flapping.
Her family were settlers here, but they weren’t the first white men. The first were cattlemen. They rode with a black man who showed them the way through the mountains en route to markets. The settlers—her father’s people—weren’t far behind. They built wattle-and-daub huts, then stronger and more permanent homesteads, sheds and yards. They brought long lines of cattle that grazed their way up the valley. Then families came, women and children. They subdued the land, cleared and ringbarked trees, making way for better pasture. They planted fruit trees, pine trees, vegetable gardens.
Daphne’s father grew up here. He married her mother, had two sons and a daughter, other babies that didn’t survive. He broke horses, ran cattle, chased brumbies. He lived and died on the property—the land made him, and he was the land. Then it was Daphne’s turn. She and Doug had a family, worked hard . . . But of course, life isn’t that simple. There are many stories, and every story contains birth, secrets, death or loss.
She thinks of Doug: a quiet, proud man, honest and hard-working, patient and kind. It killed him when the land was taken. The government bought it back, claiming they had reason to do so. They had authority and there was nothing Daphne and Doug could do. The government took Doug’s life, though they’d never see it that way.
She wonders what Doug would think of the doctor’s referral letter, and it takes only a moment to decide he would agree with her. She did the best thing. The bin is the right place for the envelope.
She stands up and walks down to the yards, leans against the old silver rails streaked with lichens. Across the valley the wind is playing in the grass, making waves in the tussocks, the only tucker the kangaroos won’t eat. She feels the afternoon breeze freshening, a touch of cold on its breath.
Then she feels something else. A strange flash in her head, and a distant pinging sound. A whirring and swishing. A brief impression of the rails tilting.
8
Daphne has been having a misty dream. The landscape is a blanket of fog from which domes of granite loom and fade. She is in a different time. Black people drift among the hills and shimmy through the trees. Veils of smoke sit over the valley. There are fires out there: slow smoky cooking fires with glowing embers. Dark-skinned women squat by the coals, grinding yams. They use round white stones to crush the bulky roots, pressing them into tongue-shaped grooves worn into flat rock slabs by generations of women before them.
The sound of stone clunking against stone echoes from the crags. Someone is working on a weapon, chipping sharp edges into a sliver of rock. Maybe a spearhead to drop a kangaroo. Birds, kangaroos, black people, these are the only things that move, apart from the wind. The valley changes slowly, time wearing the rocks away. People come and go, their bones bleaching in crevices between boulders on the high tops.
Then Daphne sees a young woman looking down at her. The woman has blue eyes, fair skin, a chaos of unruly reddish-brown hair. Daphne feels a strange slow spinning. She remembers falling, doesn’t know how long she’s been out: minutes or seconds.
The young woman’s face is puckered with concern. Daphne has seen her in the valley before, but from a distance. She’s just a girl in Daphne’s estimation, maybe in her early twenties. They have passed each other several times near the homestead, maintaining polite separation, acknowledging each other with miniscule nods. They have never spoken. Daphne comes here to remember and she knows other people have their reasons for being here too.
Now she accepts the hand that is offered in assistance, and sits up, wavering a moment before the girl reaches down to circle her waist with an arm and helps her to stand. The girl is saying something Daphne can’t hear because there’s a thumping in her head, like a water hammer juddering through pipes in the walls of an old house. She leans against the girl and they walk slowly to the homestead where Daphne sits down on the boards of the veranda and slumps against one of the uprights. She watches vacantly as the girl drags a backpack onto the veranda and empties the contents: a jumper, notepads and pencils, a raincoat, a lunch box, a range of other paraphernalia. Then the girl sets out a mug and pours something into it from a silver thermos.
‘Here.’ She places the mug into Daphne’s hands and helps raise it to her lips. ‘It’s hot chocolate.’
Daphne feels something warm and rich trickle into her mouth. She almost gags before she swallows.
‘Drink up,’ the girl says. ‘It’s good for you.’
Daphne is vague and fluttery. She sips the warm liquid, clears her throat, tries to speak. Her voice comes out rough, like sandpaper. ‘Thank you.’
The girl nods and sits beside her, takes her hand. ‘You’re cold.’ She lays her jumper around Daphne’s shoulders. ‘Are you here on your own?’
Daphne shakes her head but can’t elaborate; she needs more time to rest and re-gather. The girl seems happy to sit, and together they gaze across the valley. The light is clear and strong. A currawong flaps over.
‘I should introduce myself,’ the girl says. ‘I’m Abby.’
She has a pretty face, Daphne thinks, as she tells the girl her name. But when you are craggy as the hills, all youth seems beautiful.
‘Are you feeling better?’ Abby asks.
‘A little,’ Daphne manages. It’s hard to talk.
‘I’m glad you’re okay,’ Abby smiles. ‘What would I have done if you weren’t? My first aid is out of date. I’m no good at CPR.’
Daphne taps her chest. ‘I’m fine,’ she says. ‘My heart’s still beating.’ Her head is beating too, she notes. It’s not supposed to—that’s why the doctor wrote out the referral that is now festering in the bin at the shops beneath layers of soggy hot chips and dripping drink cans.
The girl smiles. ‘What do they say? While you’re breathing you’re having a good day.’ She points over the rise. ‘I was coming down the valley when I saw you fall. Nobody came to help, so I ran to see if you were okay. I didn’t know I could move so fast. Did you say someone is here with you?’
‘My daughter is in the car up at the road,’ Daphne says.
The girl stands up. ‘I’ll go and fetch her.’
Daphne raises a hand to stop her. ‘Not yet, dear. She’ll come eventually.’ She shifts her gaze across the dry vista of the valley, and Abby sits down beside her again.
‘You come here often, don’t you?’ Abby says. ‘It’s a special place. I love it.’
‘I grew up here,’ Daphne says. ‘My family were settlers.’
Abby gazes up among the eaves. ‘Really? You lived in this old hut? It seems they’ve preserved it fairly well.’
‘There used to be a kitchen out the back,’ Daphne says, strengthening a little. ‘That’s gone now, just the old stone chimney left. And there were other buildings. Some were taken down. Others have crumbled away.’
‘This hut’s my best friend in bad weather,’ Abby says. ‘Not that we’ve had much rain this year. I’m tired of the drought.’
‘The land looks poorly, doesn’t it?’ Daphne agrees. ‘It’s sad to see it so run-down. All these kangaroos.’ She thinks of the past, and its place in the present, and how much things have changed. Then she thinks again of the doctor’s appointment and the referral letter and the rubbish bin at the shops. Suddenly she feels tired. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘I don’t feel well.’
Abby jumps up immediately. ‘I’ll go and get your daughter. I have a key to the gate so she can drive down.’
Daphne sits back weakly while Abby disappears round the side of the homestead. Soon Pam’s car noses around the corner and parks on the grass. Pam leaps out and gushes over her anxiously. ‘What happened? How did you fall? Are you all right?’
At the sight of her daughter, Daphne feels suddenly feeble and teary. ‘I’m tired. I need to go home for a rest.’
Pam helps her to stand up, then Abby returns, smiling. She has a long loose stride like a brolga about to take
flight. She and Pam assist Daphne to the car. They hoist her into the passenger seat where she sags, drained. ‘Don’t forget the chair,’ she says.
Pam goes to get it.
Through the window, Daphne reaches for Abby’s hand and grasps it. ‘Thank you for helping me, dear. If I was in better nick I’d stay longer.’
The girl rubs Daphne’s hand with small pale fingers. ‘I’m glad you’re all right.’
Daphne lets go of Abby’s hand reluctantly. ‘I’d like to see you again,’ she says. ‘We could make morning tea for you. To thank you.’
Abby’s blue eyes hover on Daphne’s face for a moment as if she’s considering something. Then she pulls a mobile phone from her pocket. ‘Tell me the number and I’ll call when I have time,’ she promises. She punches in the numbers as Daphne announces them.
Then Pam is back. She tosses the folding chair in the back seat of the car and they drive slowly up the track to the gate. They wait for Abby, who swings the gate wide then closes it behind them and pushes the padlock shut. She leans against a post and waves.
As they pull away Daphne twists in her seat to look back, and what she sees is an outline of Abby’s pale face framed by a crop of wild hair.
9
The big brick Queanbeyan house where Daphne lives with Pam and Pam’s husband Ray is double storey and a tad ostentatious for Daphne’s taste, but Ray has worked hard for his money—there’s good business to be had from selling curtains—so Daphne supposes he’s allowed a status symbol or two. Ray ought to be retired by now, but he’s addicted to his job. He doesn’t do as much as he used to, so Pam doesn’t mind. She says work keeps him out of trouble. These days he mostly manages things from home—or interferes, according to Pam. He has enough staff to run the business, but he can’t quite let it go.
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