Jillaroo

by Rachael Treasure

  Eventually, at night, Harry and Frankie had run out of things to say to each other. It was Frankie who had one day decided that children would be the answer. They would make Harry happy again. They would make him open up to her and fill the void she felt in her soul. Children would make it work.

  In the car, as she and Peter drove along, Frankie felt the emotion rise up in her when she thought of Tom, Rebecca and Mick. She had tried to ring Harry this morning before she and Peter left. Horrified to hear Tom’s voice still on the answering machine, she had cursed Harry and put her hand to her mouth to stop herself wailing.

  After the machine’s beep Frankie had sucked in a breath and said icily, ‘For godsakes, Harry, change that message.’ She’d paused as she’d sought control. ‘I’m just ringing to say that Peter and I will be arriving tomorrow at lunchtime. I just have to see …’ Frankie’s voice had faltered and wavered for a moment. ‘… see where he … died.’ She’d hung up the phone quickly.

  In the car Frankie put a hand to her mouth again and fought back tears. She looked out the window and let the bush blur by. Peter laid a gentle hand on her thigh and said, ‘You okay?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said.

  When they reached the front gate, she got out to open it, dragging it across the dusty road. Just then she heard the ‘whump whump whump’ of a helicopter overhead. Treetops stirred in the stillness.

  Shutting the gate and looking skyward, Frankie said, ‘Strange.’

  From the front gate there were still ten kilometres of winding road to travel. When the homestead and yard at last came into view, Frankie was shocked by the flurry of activity.

  The chopper, blades spinning and motor running, was in the grassy yard, stirring the still air into a crazy rush of wind. Emergency workers in orange SES uniforms and medics in white ran here and there between an ambulance, its lights flashing, and the chopper. Further away along the river’s tight bend, fire trucks and forestry vehicles lumbered up and down, hosing a grass fire which was edging towards the scrub-covered hills. The smoke in the still air cast a haze over the scene.

  ‘What on earth is going on?’ asked Peter.

  Frankie shook her head, a look of fear on her face. Henbury, spotting the strange orange overalls, began to bark loudly.

  ‘Quiet, Henners,’ said Peter.

  As they drove into the yards, the chopper lifted from the ground and flew south in the direction of the city from which it had come. The emergency workers looked skyward and watched it fly up and over the mountain until it was out of sight.

  Frankie moved about the Waters Meeting kitchen and was shocked at her familiarity with it after all the years away. She reached for cups, opened canisters and spooned crumbling mounds of tea-leaves into a large pot. She stoked the fire. There were no biscuits. She was shocked at the state of the pantry – instant noodles and tins of plain label baked beans was about all she could find. At least there was some sugar.

  She glanced up. It was so odd to see Peter sitting at the Waters Meeting table. He looked so … so city and out of place. Around him the local volunteers chatted about the accident and the fire and glanced nervously at Frankie. They hadn’t seen her in the area for years. The ambulance officers sat in the sunroom waiting for the kettle to again boil for coffee.

  Amidst the chatter, Frankie tuned in on the dry voice of Harry’s neighbour, Gary Tate, as he recounted his story. Peter sat across the table from Gary and watched the man’s weathered face as he spoke.

  ‘He ordered some hay last week, so I came down to deliver it. When I got to the yard I couldn’t see anyone about, so I stopped me truck and came into the house yard to knock on the door and sing out a bit. Wasn’t sure where to unload it, you see, and there wasn’t a tractor about with forks on, so I couldn’t do it on me own. Thanks love.’ He took the cup of steaming tea from Frankie and slowly poured a dribble of thin powdered milk into the cup. He then spooned some sugar into the brown steaming liquid.

  Frankie and Peter leaned forward waiting for him to continue. Gary seemed to savour the moment. As he began to speak, the fire and emergency volunteers gradually stopped chatting and fell silent to again listen to the story.

  ‘Well I was just at the garden gate when I saw smoke. Ah! I think he’s over there burning off a bit. I thought to meself, It’s too far to walk, I’m not taking the truck along that track, so I look in the shed and see a motorbike. I thought old Harry wouldn’t mind. So I check the fuel and off I go. He’d left all the gates open so I got to the tractor pretty quick. The thing was though … what I thought was strange was that the fire had burnt away from the tractor and up the paddock. It wasn’t in the gully at all where you’d expect to burn off. It was just creeping along, over green grass, sort of jumping from sag bush to tussock. Smoking a lot. Not doing much ’cause there was no wind.’

  Peter shifted in his seat and sighed. Gary took this as a hint to get on with story and his voice moved on faster.

  ‘That’s when I saw his boots at the back end of the tractor. He was sort of half hanging, half lying with his arm stuck in the digger. He was out to it by the time I got to him. Bloody white as sheet. Thought he was dead. But when I shook his face I knew he wasn’t.’

  Gary paused here as he replayed the grisly discovery in his mind. He again felt the rush of nausea, and the smell of blood and smoke came back to him. He swallowed. He hoped he wasn’t going to vomit again.

  ‘Anyway, I just hot-tailed it on the bike back to the house and phoned triple 0. They sent the lot – fire, air ambos and you guys.’ He waved his cup in the direction of the ambulance drivers. Then he turned to look Frankie in the eye. Her face was pale and she was holding onto the back of a chair, unable to move.

  ‘Bloody lucky he was, the chopper blokes said. The machine had wrapped his shirt round his arm and into his muscle so tight it had slowed the bleeding. Would’ve bled to death otherwise. And it was also bloody lucky he had a lighter on him, or I’d never have spotted him.’

  The people in the kitchen sat in silence. Frankie, without knowing it, pulled the chair away from the table and plonked down on the hard seat.

  Just then, in the silence, the door opened. A young emergency volunteer popped his head around the door.

  ‘Hey Gaz, I’ve just driven the tractor back to the shed. Do ya reckon I should hose the post-hole digger down before we take it off.’

  ‘Yeah, mate. Good idea,’ said Gary, feeling important that he was considered by the younger men to be in charge of mop-up operations.

  ‘And while you’re at it, could you put the forks on the front. Then I can unload the hay. Oh, wait a minute, mate.’ Gary turned to the ambulance officers. ‘Do ya reckon he’ll pull through … I mean …’ He shifted in his seat. ‘Will he be needing the hay?’

  Frankie spoke sharply and almost too loudly. ‘I’ll write you a cheque.’ The room fell silent again except for the hiss of the kettle. The young man at the door retreated outside. Frankie looked across at Peter.

  He was pale and she was sure he was about to faint.

  When they had waved away the last of the rescue workers, Frankie and Peter stood with their backs to the large empty house and looked out across the river flats. Henbury snuffled about at their feet, sniffing at tufts of grass and lifting his leg on fence posts. The sun was setting and painting the top of the mountains in an orange-red. It was a beautiful sight but, in the corner of her vision, Frankie could see the garage. She could sense it. Suddenly her knees felt weak. She reached out for Peter’s arm to steady herself.

  ‘Do you want to head back to the pub for the night?’ Peter asked.

  Frankie looked up into his eyes. ‘Um … I’m not sure.’

  They stood looking at the river flats for a time before she spoke again.

  ‘Would you mind, Peter, if we stay the night … here?’

  Peter smiled a thin smile. Of course he minded. He didn’t want to stay in the big old house in the middle of nowhere – her ex-husband’s house.


  ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘We can stay as long as you like.’

  Frankie laid a grateful hand on his arm. ‘Thanks. I’m sure there are some animals that will need feeding now that Harry’s … not here.’ She looked back out across the valley again. There below she could see Hank and Ink Jet grazing side by side.

  ‘Peter?’ she said cautiously.

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Can you ride a horse?’

  Peter looked at her suspiciously.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s just … tomorrow … I’d love it if we could ride up to the plains. Spend a night in the hut … where Tom was.’

  Peter swallowed and pulled an ‘I don’t know’ face.

  ‘Please,’ she urged. ‘It’s something I have to do.’

  ‘I suppose I could try.’

  Frankie laughed a little as she kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  ‘I love you, Peter Maybury.’

  She ushered him inside, with Henbury following them. It was time to light the fire.

  Later that night, Frankie left Peter lying in the sagging bed of the spare room and gently tiptoed around the house. Even in the dark she still knew her way. Her hand reached automatically for doorknobs. Knobs that opened the doors to her boys’ rooms. She touched her fingertips on the gleaming plastic football trophies in Mick’s room. In Tom’s room, she stroked the pillow on Tom’s bed and she opened a cupboard and held an old work jumper to her breast. Tears fell silently on the rough woollen fabric. Her fingers ran through the yarn where the elbow had worn. I must mend that for him one day, she thought.

  Like a ghost in the shadows, Frankie retraced the steps of her past about the house. When she went into Harry’s room, the smell hit her like a slap. The smell of him. She took a few steps towards the bed that they once shared, peering at the unmade, rumpled sheets and blankets. It was as if he was still sleeping in there. She reached out a hand and felt the coldness of the bedspread. Then she turned her back, shutting the door and the past behind her.

  Outside, still clutching Tom’s jumper, she looked up at the masses of stars that crowded the night sky. The cold air sent goosebumps shivering along her skin. She walked over the cool concrete of the pathway in bare feet, then across the dewy grass and into the blackness of the garage. She crouched down amidst the dust, dead leaves and white crusty swallow droppings and she began to sob. She sobbed into the fabric of Tom’s jumper. Frankie crouched there crying, with the image of her son swinging above her head.

  CHAPTER 42

  Charlie insisted he come too and threw his bag into the back of Rebecca’s Subaru. The four dogs sniffed at the bag from their short chains and wagged their tails as he jumped into the passenger seat. Rebecca said nothing. She just started the ute and drove quickly away from the cottage. Charlie’s mother came out of the house, stood by the hedge and waved slowly, watching them go. In her hand was a tin of biscuits she had hoped to give them before they made the long trip to the city.

  Rebecca sped over the grid. She thought back to when she got the call from Sally.

  ‘Bec, word’s out around the office that your dad had an accident yesterday. Has anyone called you?’

  Rebecca’s mind raced. An accident? Was he dead?

  ‘No. No one’s called,’ she said quickly.

  ‘All I know is that he was flown to the Royal last night. I only just found out. Do you want me to go down there … to see how he is?’

  Rebecca, pale-faced and short of breath, sat down for a minute.

  ‘Yes. Sal. Yes, I’ll leave now. I’ll drive down now. And I’ll meet you there this afternoon.’ After she hung up the phone she ran to the toilet. She was going to be sick.

  In the car now Rebecca tried to sum up her reaction to the news. Initially she was filled with concern for her father. What had happened? Would he be all right? Was he dying? Now she’d had time to think, she was not so sure how she felt. Sally hadn’t given her any details, and when she’d phoned the hospital, the nurse had just said he was stable. She wasn’t sure why she felt so compelled to go to him after all that had passed between them. She’d tried to phone Mick and Trudy, but all she got was their answering machine with Trudy’s recorded singsong voice. In between packing her bags and refuelling the ute, Rebecca also tried to ring Frankie. There was no answer in the flat so she just left a message.

  At the vet surgery Charlotte answered the phone. ‘No, sorry Rebecca, your mum’s not here,’ she said. ‘She’s taken a week off and has gone away with Peter … for a drive somewhere.’

  Rebecca had slammed down the phone.

  ‘Bloody typical,’ Bec said to the road ahead as she thought of her mother.

  ‘What?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘Mum. She hardly ever rings me, and when she takes off on holiday, she doesn’t even let me know where she’s going. Now I’m supposed to deal with this Dad thing on my own. Like frigging usual.’

  Charlie looked over to Bec and pushed a wisp of hair back behind her ears. ‘It’ll be okay, Bec,’ he said gently. ‘And besides, you’re not dealing with it on your own. I’m here for you.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Charlie,’ she said, not hearing him, ‘I used to think Mum was superwoman, putting up with Dad and all her work, plus us kids … but now … now, after Tom, it’s changed. It’s like she’s never really been there for us at all. I don’t think she must’ve ever been there for Dad … not with her heart and soul. She was always running away.’

  ‘Sounds like someone I know,’ said Charlie blandly. Rebecca flashed him a look.

  ‘I used to blame it all on Dad, you know. It was always Dad’s fault. But now … now I think I’m starting to see.’

  ‘It takes two to tango,’ said Charlie.

  Rebecca fell silent and thought of her mother and father and the days they had all lived under one roof. Maybe she was remembering it wrong. A tension ran through every part of her body. She didn’t slow when a truck passed them on the single strip of bitumen. The two wheels of the Subaru threw up dust and fine gravel as they veered off to one side of the road to let the truck pass.

  ‘I think I should drive,’ Charlie said gently. ‘You’re too upset.’

  ‘Don’t you patronise me, Charlie Lewis.’

  ‘Don’t you confuse patronising for caring, Rebecca Saunders,’ said Charlie smoothly, and eventually she smiled at him.

  When they stopped for fuel in the first town they swapped seats. As they drove out of town Bec touched Charlie gently on his neck and smiled at him. He smiled back. Then she leaned her head on the seat, shut her eyes and held in the tears. She was scared about what she’d find at the hospital.

  Charlie and Rebecca stepped sideways as a man in a pale blue uniform wheeled a trolley past them. The smell of the hospital made Rebecca wince. It was as if she breathed too deeply she too would become ill and be trapped within the cold walls of the hospital with the sick, aged and dying. A woman in a tired-looking dressing gown wandered along the corridor in front of them, wheeling a saline drip. Her face was sullen and grey. She glared at Rebecca, as if reading her thoughts.

  ‘I hate hospitals,’ Bec whispered to Charlie.

  The corridor opened up into a large reception area and waiting room. In the corner on a plump chair was Sally. She was sitting near the receptionist’s desk next to a statue of the Virgin Mary. Mary’s head was bowed downwards under a veil, as if gazing solemnly at Sally. When Sally stood, Rebecca noticed how thin she’d become and how pale her face was, but her eyes shone with warmth to see her friend again. They hugged.

  ‘Charlie,’ Sally said warmly and hugged him too.

  ‘Sorry we’re a bit late – traffic,’ he said.

  ‘It’s okay. Me and the Virgin Mary here have been yarning away.’ She leaned towards them and whispered, ‘Bit of a bore really – we don’t have that much in common.’

  ‘I wouldn’t imagine you would,’ smiled Bec. ‘You should’ve gone in to see Dad instead of waiting for us and yakking to th
e Virgin.’

  ‘Nah! I hate going to see people in hospitals. Thought I’d wait for you guys. Besides, when I asked where he was they said only close family could go in to see him.’

  ‘As if I’m classed as “close”,’ said Rebecca sarcastically. ‘You’re coming too, Sal, you’re his counsellor, remember?’ Rebecca tweaked Sally on her sleeve.

  ‘His rural financial counsellor, not his post-op counsellor.’ She looked at Rebecca’s face, then conceded. ‘Oh all right then. He’s on the third floor,’ she nodded towards the lifts.

  The three walked over in silence, all frightened at what they might find up there in the ward. Inside the lift’s stainless-steel interior Bec could barely breathe. She reached for Charlie’s hand. He held it tightly. As the doors slid open Sally said, ‘You go in and see him first. I’ll wait outside.’

  ‘No. No, Sal. Come in with us. I’ll need both of you.’ Rebecca’s blue eyes pleaded with her.

  At first, in the large ward, Rebecca’s eyes scanned past the old man who slept, propped up on pillows in the too-narrow bed. Then her eyes roamed back to him and with shock she recognised the old man to be her father.

  She looked up at Charlie and indicated the bed. His eyes followed her gentle gesture and came to rest on Harry. All of them looked at the place where his right arm should have been. A rounded stump beneath a swathe of bandages rested on the pillow.

  When Rebecca stood by his bedside and touched him on his left arm he woke with a start.

  ‘Oh! G’day,’ he said in a crackling soft voice. He pulled up the sheets as if trying to cover his embarrassment. Rebecca was shocked at how weak he seemed.

  She tried to avert her eyes from the bruise which began as black from beneath the bandaged stump and then faded to strange mottled yellow and purple hues across his bare chest and neck.

  ‘How are you, Dad?’

  ‘Could be better.’ His voice was barely a whisper through dry, crusty lips. The whites of his eyes had yellowed. He looked at the foot of the bed as he spoke. He couldn’t look at his daughter. There was silence in the room except for the snoring of another patient and the chatter of a television mounted high in the corner.