Billabong Bend

by Jennifer Scoullar

  ‘Any of your homemade chutney to go with it, Ellen?’

  Mum beamed with pleasure and reached for the jar as Dad came in. ‘Seeing as I’m here,’ said Lockie, ‘may as well make myself useful. Anything you need a hand with, Nina?’

  ‘You’re a good pump man, Lockie,’ said Dad. ‘Nina says the river pumps aren’t lifting enough water.’

  ‘No, Dad,’ she said. ‘I can manage.’

  ‘Might be anything,’ said Lockie. ‘Worn seals, lines leaking air . . .’

  ‘Reckon you could take a look?’ asked Dad.

  ‘Righto.’ Lockie tipped his hat further forward on his head. ‘Can I take the Pelican? Might as well check the hose inlet pipes aren’t clogged while I’m at it. You’re bound to get problems with the river this low.’

  ‘Thanks, mate.’ Dad took the boat keys off the hook without asking and threw them to Lockie. ‘I’ll help Nina feed out hay and be down when we’re finished.’

  ‘No worries.’ Lockie disappeared out the door.

  Mum dried her hands on her apron and beamed at Nina. ‘Such a nice boy. Don’t keep him waiting too long, sweetheart.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Dad with a dry laugh. ‘He might get away.’

  Nina sank into a chair. How on earth was she going to set Lockie straight with her parents around? Here she was trying to break up with the man, and they seemed about ready to marry her off.

  ‘Will I get a bale on for you, love?’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  Jim headed for the sheds, started up the old tractor and loaded a fat round bale on the rear spike, from the dwindling row along the fence. ‘Hop on.’

  As they bumped off down the laneway, Nina studied him in profile. Still handsome, despite the wrinkles and ruddy weather-beaten cheeks. He had the keen, clear eyes of a man who’d lived his life outdoors. The muscles of his face had relaxed along deeply etched smile lines. It had been years now since she’d seen his face twisted in anger. Dad whistled a tune as he jumped down to open the gate. ‘I’ll do that,’ she called, but he didn’t seem to hear. He missed working on the farm, she could tell.

  The hungry grey weaners chased the tractor as they went from paddock to paddock, bucking and kicking in excitement. They fed out the last of the hay and sat for a while to watch the cattle feed. ‘Why not buy in some cows and calves?’ said Dad. ‘I’ll tell you where there’s a good bull. Bert Mason’s place. He’d lend it to you.’

  ‘I’m concentrating on the orchards, Dad. Smarter farming, that’s where the future lies. New crops, better use of water. In the end, I’d like to get out of cattle altogether. But in the meantime, I’m perfectly happy with my steers.’

  ‘There’s more profit in cows and calves.’

  ‘And more heartache. I always hated calving time. Cows down, in trouble, bellowing for dead babies. Orphans crying for their mothers.’

  ‘Just the odd one or two,’ said Dad. ‘You make it sound like world war three.’

  ‘Maybe so, but one problem calving’s too many for me. I’ll stick to buying in steers, healthy and already weaned.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  He was miffed that she didn’t want his advice, she knew that. It was only natural. Dad had run the place his own way for thirty years. But it was still irritating when he tried to take over. One look at his crestfallen face, though, and she took pity on him. ‘Let’s take a look at the olives,’ she said. ‘There’s something I want to ask you.’

  It was past lunchtime before they returned to the house. Lockie was standing outside. Not in the shade. He stood instead, in the full, withering heat of the sun, legs planted wide, with balled fists and a grim face. ‘Know what that bastard over the river’s gone and done?’ he said. ‘He’s rigged the wheels. Jammed some, drowned others. I went the full length of the diversion. Not one fucking wheel spinning. Not one.’ He cracked his knuckles. ‘There’s algae on the drums. The damned things haven’t turned for weeks, months maybe.’

  At first Nina didn’t understand. Perhaps she didn’t want to. She’d had her suspicions. From the air, Donnalee’s expanded water storages dwarfed the river, even dwarfed the dams of other cotton farms. How had Max filled them? According to Ric, he’d been trading. Used to be that water rights and property rights went hand in hand. Water belonged to the land it was found on, which seemed only natural. But in recent years the two had been uncoupled and given a cash value independent of each other. These were tough times. The temptation was to trade licences that had lain unused in bottom drawers. Water that had never left the river was suddenly for sale. According to Ric, Max had been legitimately acquiring these sleeper licences, along with sell-offs from failed drought-stricken farmers. But now there was proof he’d been flat-out stealing water as well.

  Nausea flooded right through her. She was sick with disgust and anger, sick with the hope that Lockie was mistaken. With the hope that those ugly blots on the landscape, those vast, unnatural dams, weren’t filled with water stolen from the river. A suspicion crept from the shadows, lurked at the edge of her mind. What about Ric? What did he know? How could he not know? Was he complicit in this crime? For that’s exactly what it is was. Theft of the most precious resource imaginable. Theft of the river itself. From the starving mud-stranded platypus to the bankrupt dry-land farmers downstream. From the ancient, ailing red gums to the vanishing egret rookeries. They were all victims of this crime.

  ‘He won’t get away with it.’ Dad’s voice dripped with venom. It was his old voice, the hostile voice of her childhood, back when he’d squandered so much time and energy hating Max Bonelli. It stirred a crawling fear deep in her belly.

  Beads of sweat stood out on his face, and the smile lines had changed into furrows of fury. ‘Give me the keys, Lockie. I’m taking a look.’

  Nina shook her head.

  ‘Give me the fucking keys.’ Lockie tossed them over, and Nina shot him a furious glance.

  Mum appeared in the doorway. ‘Jim, what’s wrong?’

  Neither Lockie nor Dad acknowledged her. Mum’s searching gaze fell on Nina, who ran to the verandah, taking its steps in a single stride. ‘Lockie says Max has rigged the wheels along the diversion.’ When Nina turned back around, Dad was striding towards the river.

  ‘Jim.’ Mum’s tone was urgent. ‘Come back.’ He was through the gate now. ‘Nina, Lockie, stop him.’

  For a moment Nina couldn’t move. It was like a bad dream. ‘Dad, wait.’ She caught up with him and grabbed his arm. He slapped it away. Nina sprinted for the jetty, with half a mind to untie the boat before he reached it. But what if the Pelican drifted downstream, perhaps to be found by poachers? Better just to go with him.

  She was about to climb on board when strong arms gripped her.

  ‘Jim’s too hot under the collar,’ said Lockie. ‘I don’t want you in the middle of it.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Her voice was rising. ‘He’s angry, really angry. So why’d you give him the keys?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Lockie. ‘I guess I thought he’s entitled to look for himself.’

  ‘No, he’s not. This is my place now, or have you both forgotten?’

  She turned to go, but he held onto her arm. ‘Nina, please.’ Too late. Dad had slipped by, untied and pushed off. The Pelican was out of reach. The motor coughed once, then roared to life and propelled the boat out into the river.

  Nina shook off Lockie’s hold and sprinted back to the house. Mum was standing out on the drive, apron twisted in her hands. ‘He’s taken the boat,’ said Nina as she passed. ‘I’ll try ringing Ric. Let him know Dad’s coming.’

  ‘Hello, beautiful.’ Ric’s voice, a reminder of the night before – a quick flash of them down by the river. She pushed it quickly aside.

  ‘Ric, listen, my dad’s on his way over there by boat, going up the diversion. He knows the wheels are rigged.’

  ‘Wheels?’ asked Ric. ‘What wheels?’

  Her heart leaped with the hope that he really didn’t know.
Then that suspicion crept close again. Was his surprise genuine? She hated herself for it, but couldn’t shake the doubt. ‘The dethridge wheels,’ she said. ‘Lockie says they’re rigged, the lot of them.’ She paused, breathless. ‘Dad’s seen red. He might go after Max. Reckon you can head him off?’

  ‘What was Lockie doing up the diversion?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  Ric hung silent on the line for so long, she thought he’d hung up. ‘I had no idea, Nina,’ he said at last. ‘You’ve got to believe me.’

  She wanted to say of course I believe you but the words wouldn’t come. ‘Can you keep Dad away from Max or not?’

  ‘Max isn’t here,’ said Ric. ‘It’s his birthday. He’s gone to the Royal with a few mates.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ she said. ‘Let’s hope he stays there.’ Nina turned to her mother as she came inside. ‘Max isn’t home,’ she whispered.

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’ asked Ric.

  ‘Just stay put,’ said Nina. ‘As long as Dad doesn’t meet up with Max, he’ll calm down. I’ll come right over.’ She finished the call and grabbed her keys.

  ‘No,’ said Mum. ‘What good will that do? I don’t want you caught up in this.’

  ‘Too late for that.’ She kissed her mum. ‘Ring me if Dad comes back, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Mum in a wavering voice. ‘Was that Ric Bonelli on the phone? You sounded very friendly.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ She kissed her mother again. ‘Won’t be long.’

  ‘I should have known.’ Ric’s dark eyes were stern and troubled as he poured her a coffee. ‘If the wheels weren’t turning, I should have known.’

  It wasn’t quite the expression of heartfelt remorse that she’d hoped for. ‘There’s no if about it,’ she said. ‘According to Lockie they’re rigged, the lot of them, all the way down the channel.’ Ric turned his head, drew his hand through his hair, did not meet her gaze. Nina studied his sombre profile as he stared out the window. She’d never seen him so withdrawn. Was he ashamed for his father, or for himself? The silence dragged on. ‘You haven’t seen my dad?’ she asked at last.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I was out in the back fields when you called. Checking the crop duster hadn’t missed anything. It was a bit windy when he was spraying.’

  Nina frowned. She’d seen the ugly yellow air tractor, strafing the cotton. Like a clumsy cross between an aircraft and a Massey Ferguson, boxy and cumbersome, with none of the streamlined beauty of her Skyhawk. It carried built-in sprayers in massive slab wings and flew low over the crop, using its own downdraft to force a deadly mist onto the cotton. The lush young plants that had previously been so pampered, so protected, were now treated with Strip, a defoliant that shut down their growth and slowly starved them to death. Last week she’d sat on the riverbank as the noisy crop duster did its work, and a stinking toxic cloud wafted over the Bunyip.

  ‘Is that my ring?’ Ric took hold of her hand.

  ‘Yes. Do you still have yours?’

  ‘Nah.’ He hung his head. ‘Got rid of it. Wish I hadn’t.’

  Nina’s neck prickled uneasily. It seemed an ill omen that he’d disposed of the ring. ‘Why don’t you try your dad again?’

  He did as she asked. ‘Nothing.’ Ric put down the phone. ‘He won’t pick up.’

  Nina tried her own father. ‘Mine either.’ She finished her coffee, craving another, but her stomach was queasy and her head had started to ache. ‘Where’s Sophie?’

  ‘Shot through somewhere with those geese.’

  Nina leaned forward on the table and buried her face in her arms. The firm rhythmic sensation of Ric’s fingers massaged her neck, probing around her temples, soothing away the pain. Her body responded to his touch, to a memory of them together at the twilight river. Was that only last night? It seemed an age ago. ‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll sort this out, I promise.’

  Nina squinted her eyes tight shut. She wasn’t so sure.

  CHAPTER 23

  Ric stood on the porch and watched Nina’s ute take off out the gate, wheels spinning on gravel. She hadn’t believed him, not completely. She’d needed reassurance, convincing. It shouldn’t be like that. There should be complete trust between them. Ric stretched to ease his sore muscles. They were wound tight, jumping beneath his skin, coiled in readiness for . . . for what? He didn’t want to argue with Nina’s dad, although it sounded like that’s what Jim was spoiling for. He didn’t want to argue with his own father either, although it sounded like Max deserved it. That’s if his dad had rigged the wheels. Nina was so certain of it. But what if it was Lockie who’d rigged them, to cast blame onto Max and onto him too? Why hadn’t Nina doubted Lockie’s story, the way she’d doubted his?

  And what had Lockie been doing there at Nina’s? After last night . . . He pushed the thought away.

  Hell, Dad might have done it. Not much chance of getting caught. There was one water bailiff for the whole region – old Sam Higgins – and he’d been around since Ric was a boy. One bailiff, who had to process licence applications and keep the records, on top of everything else. Sam was overworked, underpaid and browned off. He hadn’t been seen down this end of the river for months. Sharp-eyed neighbours were far more likely to track down water thieves, and were liable to hand down rough justice too, long before old Sam got around to investigating their complaints.

  Knowing Dad, he may have legitimately bought up water licences for miles around and still been greedy for more. Cotton growing at Donnalee was a constant battle, an endless struggle against the elements. Nina’s concept of a farm working in harmony with the river’s fragile ecology would seem naïve and strange to his father. For Max, farming was a contest. Each season saw a victor – either nature won, or he did. And his dream to drought-proof the farm, to dominate the river, was a long-held and passionate one. But to steal water in a drought? Ric didn’t want to believe it.

  These past months, connecting with Max – they’d been more special than he cared to admit. For sixteen years he’d built a wall around his heart, convinced himself that he didn’t miss his father and never would. He’d edited his childhood memories, recalling the harshness and hostilities, disregarding the love and happy family times. But that was changing. Ric was grown now, a man with a child of his own, a man with insight and understanding. The big-picture lens of adulthood had panned back to reveal Max in all his colours, not just black and white. It showed him as a proud parent, a tender grandfather, a man of rich humour and uncommon resourcefulness. In his blunt, hardworking way, Dad had taught Ric a lot, had tried his best to make a man out of him. And after all these years, Ric finally appreciated that and was thankful for this second chance. Mum had told him stories about his father growing up without an education, suffering at the hands of his stepfather, risking himself to protect his sisters. Everybody was a prisoner of their past, he knew that now. Max was no more flawed than he was himself.

  The hum of a motor summoned him back. Normally he wouldn’t have taken much notice of the quad bike, going west down the laneway towards the dams. But a quick glance revealed that Dad’s truck wasn’t back and there were no other workers around on a Sunday. Who the hell was it? Ric headed for the car, swinging through the gate towards the river and into the main laneway. There, up ahead. He could see the bike and make out the driver too. Jesus, it was Sophie, taking her goslings for a ride. She was heading towards the storage, raising a plume of dust, her long plaits blowing in the breeze. The young geese crowded around her, some with wings outstretched like they were flying.

  He beeped the horn and Sophie slowed to a stop. She turned around as he got out of the car, wearing her defiant face. ‘You never said I couldn’t ride the bike.’

  ‘You’re nine years old. I didn’t think I had to.’ A gosling jumped to the ground, then another. ‘What the heck does a kid like you know about bikes?’

  ‘I’ve watched you and Poppi. It’s not that hard.’

>   ‘Kids are hurt all the time on those things,’ he said. ‘You weren’t even wearing a helmet. What would your mother say if you went and got yourself killed?’

  ‘She wouldn’t care. She never even rings.’ This last point, at least, was true, so he let it go. ‘Did you love my mother?’ asked Sophie.

  The question caught him so off guard that he forgot about her misdemeanour with the bike. What could he say? That when he and Rachael met they’d been very young. Both a bit lost, both divided from their families, with not much in common but their loneliness. They’d held together for a while, hitchhiking round, working as fruit pickers and dairy hands. Rachael had run off with a bloke headed for the prawn trawlers up north and he’d drifted west to the Kimberley oil fields. They hadn’t seen each other since. Had he loved Rachael back then? In a way.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I loved your mother.’

  ‘But you don’t love her any more?’

  ‘Well . . . we lost touch.’

  ‘And now you love Nina instead of Mum.’ It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

  She’d taken him by surprise again. ‘Yeah,’ said Ric at last, feeling unaccountably guilty. ‘Maybe I do.’ He had to take back control of the conversation somehow. Who was in the wrong here anyway? ‘Poppi won’t be happy when he finds out you’ve been riding the bike.’

  ‘Poppi already knows,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t mind.’

  ‘How could Poppi know? He’s been in town all afternoon.’

  ‘No he hasn’t,’ she said. ‘He came back ages ago.’

  ‘That’s not true, Sophie. Poppi couldn’t be back. His car’s not there.’

  ‘It is so true,’ she said. ‘Gino dropped him home. He said Poppi had too much whisky to drive. I could smell it when he kissed me.’ She wrinkled her nose. Ric’s eyes narrowed. Her story had the ring of truth about it, but it begged the question, where was Max? ‘If you say I’m lying again,’ said Sophie, ‘I’ll run away, and never, ever come back.’