The Grass Castle

by Karen Viggers

  They are in a university vehicle and Abby is driving. She organised this trip especially for Daphne, but she had to tie it in with checking her kangaroos so she could justify the use of the four-wheel drive—she said there was no way her old Laser would make it up the trails. They also had to arrange this excursion for a weekday because the rangers don’t like vehicles going into the park on weekends when there might be hikers around; apparently cars disrupt the ambience of the bush.

  Daphne is delighted to be here, of course. Pam wasn’t very happy about her coming; she thought a whole day might be too much for an old lady. But Daphne wasn’t missing out for anything. The weather is fine and cool and Daphne is determined she will enjoy every moment of it. It’s not often you get an offer like this: a chance to visit the locked-up parts of the mountains in a car.

  Abby’s boyfriend is accompanying them. He had to con his boss into letting him come by saying he had a rare opportunity to access a remote part of the park. He says he’s planning to do a story about one of the historic huts, and maybe even a feature on the moon walk and the role of the satellite dish that used to stand in this valley. Daphne likes this idea, and she told him she’d be happy to share her experiences with him.

  He’s sitting in the back seat with his knees under his chin. Daphne offered to let him sit in the front because of his long legs, but he insisted he was fine. He said he was looking forward to being a back-seat driver so he could deflate Abby’s cockiness about her driving skills.

  Daphne is pleased to meet Abby’s boyfriend. He’s a nice young man, very solid; Abby could do a lot worse. Abby, however, doesn’t seem particularly attentive to him. Daphne wants to tell Abby that good men are few and far between, but she suspects that stating her opinion would be overstepping the mark. Abby needs to make her own decisions.

  Abby looks comfortable behind the wheel—she’s such a competent young lady. Gates, gears, four-wheel drives, it all seems so easy to her. Daphne likes to see independence in a woman. When she was younger, she too was very capable. Nowadays, young women seem very limited, their interest absorbed by hair, fingernails and phones. Daphne is astounded every time she sees one of those nail parlours in the shopping mall. To her mind such places represent society gone wrong—people with too much money and no real purpose in life.

  Fortunately Abby isn’t like this, which is why Daphne appreciates her. Abby has class and individual flair, natural beauty—the very best type. She’s no manicured fashion queen, but she has her own style. Daphne likes the way Abby knocks up clothes from other people’s cast-offs, dividing and combining segments to create interesting garments. She says she doesn’t do it often because she has so little time, but it’s certainly creative and a good use for discarded clothing. Abby is definitely her own person, an alluring enigma. No wonder Cameron is in love with her—Daphne sees the rich sparkle in his eyes every time he looks at Abby. He wants more, it’s obvious.

  They drive up through a maze of grey trunks: mountain gums with twisted bark. Daphne remembers droving the cattle up here, using dogs and stockwhips to push the beasts away from the valley. Back then, stock work was largely men’s work, although female riders sometimes came along, like her. When a lead-cow hit the front it was easy. The cow would lower her head and nod purposefully along, drawing the other cattle with her. They would wend their way up the track—a line of black shuffling backs and flicking tails, riders following. As they ascended, grassy meadows would entice the beasts off the track to graze. While they were tearing mouthfuls of wiry grass, the riders would light a fire and put a billy on to boil for a strong cup of tea. It was best not to hurry or the cattle became unsettled and difficult to handle. Once they’d eaten their fill, they were more placid and would leave slowly and lumber up the trail with the dogs panting behind, the men further back on horses. Over a number of days, they would work their way up the contours to the river flats where the cows would slow to a crawl, grazing the green pick. As the flats spread wider, so would the beasts, intent on feeding. The riders would thin out too, following small mobs that had detached from the larger whole, so they could bring them back together again at dusk.

  Usually they spent a few days on the flats, letting the stock grow fat and slow and lazy, the sheen rising in their coats. The grass was rich and lush, and when the cattle were sated, the riders would push them on again, around the flanks of Mount Bimberi and up to the summer pastures where snow gums grew twisted and contorted in the ferocious winds that shredded the plateau. On still days, the cattle roamed the tops, making their way across grazing heaven.

  Abby drives up into the heart of the mountains and stops at Daphne’s favourite hut for morning tea. At the gate Cameron takes the keys, releases the padlock and lets them in so they can park in front of the building on the grass. Daphne opens the window so she can inhale the fragrant alpine air. The grass around the hut is cropped short by kangaroos and wallabies that have weaselled their way under the fence.

  The hut has brick foundations and weatherboard walls—it’s been rebuilt since Daphne’s day. Back then it was a tin-roofed slab structure with thick poles for corner posts, and it provided excellent shelter, good for a night’s sleep out of the weather while droving, so long as you didn’t mind sharing with a few bush rats. Sometimes, if it was raining, the dogs would slink in for warmth.

  Cameron does a quick inspection tour, and reports gas bottles around the side and evidence of a septic system. It’s a far cry from the basic facilities Daphne and the men considered luxury many years ago. She goes for a slow amble around the hut, and when she finishes her circuit, she lowers herself into a folding chair that Cameron has readied for her. Abby produces a thermos and pours tea into mugs. They sit and eat a Boston bun, the fluffy white cream sticking to their lips. Daphne hears a shrike-thrush calling in the bush. The sound of the river rises from some distance downhill.

  ‘Not a bad spot, is it?’ Daphne says. ‘Civilisation in the middle of nowhere.’ She’s pleased to revisit this place and share it with the young people. They must find it hard to imagine the young woman she once was, looking at her now, but to Daphne it seems not so long ago that she was last in this place. She remembers stockmen milling around the hut, horses hobbled in the clearing, the distant bellows of cattle out across the flats. If she closes her eyes, the new building is gone and the old hut is back. The bush is much the same, the mountain tops unchanged.

  They finish the last of the tea and Boston bun, then Abby packs things away in a box. Daphne catches Cameron ogling the young woman’s hips. She supposes they are sexually active—Pam tells her all young people are these days. Abby is lovely, and Cameron is such a good-looking man, with his dark hair, olive skin and affable smile. But there’s something in their dynamic that’s not quite right: a simmering tension?—Daphne’s not quite sure what it is.

  Back in the four-wheel drive, they retrace their route along the road above the river, a pretty watercourse, bumbling over stones and rocks. Then they turn onto the mountain trail and make their way uphill, climbing gradually through forest.

  The trail is rougher and windier here, and the driving slower. Daphne wearies from holding on to the armrest as they lurch and jolt over wash-outs and gutted furrows. At times the track is steep and Abby puts the vehicle in low-four and keeps her foot steady on the accelerator while they grind uphill at a walking pace. She holds the wheel firmly and stops talking, concentrating instead on choosing the best place to direct the front wheels.

  Finally they emerge from the trees onto the plateau where the land rolls in tune with the clouds. Wind scatters and fossicks among the tussocks, granite festoons the mountain tops, and ranges peel away in layers, purple and brooding, receding into the distance.

  Below the walking track to one of the peaks, Abby stops the car and sets up a picnic. Cameron organises the folding chairs and helps Daphne to a seat before gathering a selection of gourmet treats on a plate for her. Daphne smiles to herself. The food is strange: marinated artichoke
s, chilli olives, herb bread, hummus dip, sun-dried tomatoes. The tomatoes are stiff and tough, hard work for her old teeth. She politely leaves them on the side of her plate and focuses on the more palatable morsels.

  They are lucky the weather is calm up high today. On a windy day, they wouldn’t be able to sit here enjoying lunch. ‘This is granite country,’ she tells the others as she eats. ‘It’s always been my favourite place. Doug’s too. We used to ride here together. Kings above the clouds.’ She points west towards the tree line where the open country merges into bush. ‘There used to be a hut down there. Some yards too, for the horses. We camped there some years on the brumby hunt. It was a good spot. High but sheltered. We built our brumby yards down the hill a-ways and tricked the brumbies into running in. Caught ourselves some good horses that way.’

  She sets down her piece of herb bread and squints across the landscape. ‘This is moth country too,’ she says. ‘Bogong moths. You can find thousands of them up here in summer. The Aborigines used to eat them—they came for miles to catch them and cook them up. It was good tucker. They used to camp in the valleys then climb the peaks for moths.’

  ‘Hard country to live in,’ Abby says. ‘Did you know many Aborigines? Were there many around when you were growing up?’

  Daphne feels a sliver of cold creep up her back. ‘None living up here,’ she says. ‘The only Aborigine I knew was that stockman I told you about who came to work with us sometimes.’

  ‘That’s sad, isn’t it?’ Abby muses, staring out across the landscape. ‘Sad that they were all gone from this place. But the moths still come, I suppose—only no-one eats them anymore.’ She points to the walking track. ‘We should go up there. I’d like to see the view.’

  ‘You young people should go.’ Daphne says. ‘I’m happy to sit here. I can get in the car if I get cold.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Abby looks concerned, but Cameron is keen—Daphne sees it in the eager way he glances at Abby, as if he could eat her up.

  ‘Yes, go.’ Daphne waves them away.

  Abby hesitates and casts a sideways look at Cameron. But Daphne is determined the youngsters should have time up here together without her tagging along.

  ‘Go,’ she says again. ‘I don’t mind being on my own. And I might take a nap. You lot have worn me out.’

  She watches Abby and Cameron sort themselves with water bottles and hats then start up the track. From her folding chair, she follows their progress as they work their way along the trail up into the bush, disappearing eventually among a grove of snow gums.

  For a while she hears the burble of their voices carried down on the tail of the wind. Then that is gone too, and all that is left is the rustle of swirling air, and the inherent sound of the landscape, pressing its shoulders against the sky.

  She nestles deeper into her chair and looks around. Now that it is quiet, an insistent thudding sound beats in her head. It comes and goes: intermittent white noise she’s been trying to ignore. But she can’t help worrying about the little falling episodes that pop up out of the blue. There she was the other day in the vegie garden, planting potatoes, and suddenly she found herself on the ground. She has no recollection of anything in between. One minute, she was pushing a piece of potato into the soil, the next she was lying on the grass beside the raised vegie bed looking up at the sky. She didn’t tell Pam, of course, couldn’t face the fussing. And she was all right within minutes anyway. No real after-effects. These things must happen to old people all the time; you can’t be running to the doctor every five minutes to gripe about every little problem.

  She gazes across the stretch of wild land that surrounds her, and peace settles on her soul. Here she is, back in the higher realms of her grass castle, which she thought she might never see again. It’s rugged and untamed and beautiful, even better than memory, and how wonderful it is to be immersed in it after so long. Time is meaningless in all this space. Seasons pass, years wither, fire burns, snow falls. But in essence not much has changed here since Daphne was young. The mountains will endure long after people are gone—and this is a reassuring thought. Perhaps it’s good after all, that this country was parcelled into a park. What would have happened to it otherwise? Landholders would have built big houses to take in the view. They would have built sheds and fences and yards, roads, farm dams, essential infrastructure. They would have ruined it.

  Land ownership is a strange thing, she thinks. If people are allowed to use the land, to own it, they make their mark, they tame things. Her family changed things in a limited way, and their impacts were relatively minimal. But what if there was no national park and they had stayed? What if they’d had to sell to other landholders—people who weren’t as wedded to conserving country as her family was? What then?

  In the end, maybe this was really the right outcome.

  She thinks of Johnny Button the stockman, and his people. This land belonged to them before white people came. His people were pushed off by her family and other settlers. They were disconnected, cut off. But Johnny didn’t blame anyone: she remembers his smile, his easy ways, unmarked by anger or resentment. He accepted it and lived his bond with country as best he could, going bush, disappearing on walkabout. She never understood it when she was young. She accepted the assessment of the other stockmen, that Johnny was a little bit crazy. But now as she sits here in this country, home of the clouds, she sees how the land lives in you, how you hold it in your bones.

  Her father always said the land was empty before his family came here. But Daphne knows it wasn’t and she’s sure he knew it too. If only she could dig up his secrets, hear the things he knew but wouldn’t tell about the Aborigines—all the knowledge that was buried in his silences. But he’s been dead for decades now, and the past will have to remain in the past. And yet it never does, does it? Consequences, punishment, guilt, regret: these things never die. The tendrils of the past stretch their long convoluted fingers into the present, and even further, into the future. And there’s no going back.

  22

  Abby and Cameron leave Daphne and follow the steep overgrown trail through the silvery grasses and up towards the peak. The track meanders around bogs and over boulders, among glades of snow gums with their narrow twisted branches spreading like thin bedraggled arms. Abby takes the lead, choosing the path of least resistance.

  ‘If this was summer,’ she says, flinging conversation over her shoulder, ‘we’d be walking among wild flowers—alpine buttercups and snow daisies and everlastings and trigger plants. They’re the prettiest flowers you’ll ever see. And they come in the most delicate yellows and pinks and mauves.’

  Cameron is frowning, she notices, focused on the ground, trying to dodge the wet patches that populate the trail. ‘Where’s all this water coming from?’ he asks. ‘I thought we were in the middle of a drought.’

  ‘There’s always water up here,’ she says. ‘Especially in winter. It runs out of the mosses and bogs and soaks. And when clouds come across, even if it doesn’t rain, you get fog drip—fine drizzle that seeps out of everything and makes it all wet.’

  ‘Next time we should come here in summer then,’ he says. ‘The proper dry season.’

  ‘So you can see the flowers?’

  ‘No, so I can keep my feet dry.’

  ‘Then there’d be March flies,’ she says. ‘So you have to take your pick. Wet feet in winter or March flies in summer.’

  ‘We could come before March,’ he grumbles. ‘Then it would be perfect.’

  ‘March flies don’t follow calendars,’ she tells him. ‘They follow the heat. And your jeans would be a beacon. They like blue. It brings them in. You’d be a perfect magnet for bites.’

  When Abby was a kid, she and Matt used to sit for hours, decommissioning March flies. They would catch them as they hovered over boots and trousers then they would restrain them and carefully pull out the proboscises before releasing the flies back into the air. Some days it seemed she and Matt disarmed an entire battalion,
and yet there were always more flies to take up the charge. Now she supposes it was cruel, but she and Matt derived a depraved kind of pleasure from it—revenge for all the stings they endured over the years. Now, on the cusp of winter, there are no flies of course, and the only sting is from the breath of the wind that drives up from Victoria and accelerates across the high tops before reaching the Brindabellas. Abby pauses on a ridge to inspect the grey clouds massing to the south.

  ‘Do you think there’s any rain in those clouds?’ Cameron asks.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘It’s all just show and pretence. Promises without delivery. I’m sick of believing in clouds and weather. They always disappoint.’

  She glances at him and catches something in his look, a furtive intensity that unsettles her. What’s he thinking? she wonders nervously. Since they came back from Mansfield, her father’s words about marriage and children have been rattling in her mind like loose sharp stones. She’s afraid Cameron wants to rope her in, like one of the wild brumbies Daphne used to catch. Perhaps if she keeps him walking he won’t be able to speak. She puts her head down and strides fast up the path.

  ‘Have you heard from Matt?’ Cameron asks, puffing behind her.

  ‘He rang the other day,’ she says. ‘He’s landed a temporary job setting up tows for the ski season. It doesn’t pay much, but it’ll keep him out of trouble till they need him back at the vineyard.’

  ‘Do they make wine where he works? Why can’t he help out in the winery if it’s quiet in the vineyard?’

  ‘Same old,’ she says. ‘He never did any studies after high school. I keep telling him he ought to get a certificate in viticulture or something, but he can’t be bothered.’

  She pushes upslope even faster, trying to make Cameron gasp for air so he’ll stop talking. She feels wild and loose and reckless and jittery. And those looks he’s been firing at her all day, like he’d like to undress her and marry her all in the one breath. It wasn’t decent in front of Daphne, and now they are alone she wants to discourage it. Who knows what might come out of him in this spare landscape with only the currawongs as witness.