Billabong Bend

by Jennifer Scoullar

  The last few harvests had actually been pretty ordinary. It looked like Donnalee hadn’t turned much of a profit for years, but you wouldn’t know it from the outgoings. When it came to the farm, Dad had been spending like it was going out of fashion. There were the usual chemicals and fertilisers, but he’d also forked out a fortune on expensive varieties of transgenic cottonseed. Spent dazzling amounts on purchasing water licences and building the new dams. He’d modernised equipment. The farm operating account was in the red by hundreds of thousands of dollars. Who’d have thought Dad would turn into a massive spender in his old age? Ric smiled wryly. Not enough of one to trade in that old rust bucket of a station wagon.

  Sophie came in and wandered about looking at things. She picked up the photo of Max. ‘Poppi.’ Her eyes lit up. ‘Dad, look, it’s Poppi.’

  ‘Thought we might put it in the kitchen.’

  ‘Who are they?’ Sophie pointed to the wedding photo.

  ‘That’s Poppi when he was young.’ Ric came over. ‘And your grandmother, Bianca.’

  ‘My grandmother? I always wanted a grandmother,’ said Sophie softly, running a fingertip over the glass. ‘She’s beautiful. Is she dead?’

  ‘No, no, she’s not dead.’ He felt guilty that he hadn’t had this conversation with Sophie earlier. ‘She lives in Italy.’

  ‘Does she know about me?’

  ‘Course she does.’ It had taken Ric some time to pluck up the courage to tell his mother about Sophie. But he needn’t have worried. She’d been excited and curious about her new granddaughter, unsatisfied with the sketchy information he’d been able to provide, and full of questions. What was Sophie’s favourite colour? Her favourite thing to do, favourite song, food, subject at school . . . ‘I don’t know,’ he’d said. ‘I’ve just met her.’

  ‘Your grandma’s really happy to have you in the family.’

  Sophie beamed with pleasure. ‘Can I keep this picture in my room?’

  ‘Sure.’ She ran off with it while Ric examined the next bank statement. Dad had opened up a line of credit on Donnalee’s title. And that account hadn’t just been used for emergency expenses – it had also been used for day-to-day items. Cigars from the tobacconist in Moree, for example. Goddamnit, Dad had been living off the equity in the farm, running it down. They owed the bank a fortune. Ric swore, and went to get more coffee. He could almost hear his mother’s voice. She’d always put such great stock in the virtue of living debt-free. Used to lecture him about it all the time. ‘Never spend your money before it’s earned, Ricco,’ she’d say. ‘You get in debt? You become a slave. Soon choices aren’t your own any more.’

  Ric headed for the kitchen. He needed a coffee. There was no sugar in the bowl. He hunted around in the cupboards while the pot brewed, but his search came up empty. They were low on milk too. Maybe he should make a run into town for supplies? He checked his wallet. Twenty dollars. Twenty dollars and that was it. What would he do when that was gone?

  His stomach grumbled. Lunch time. Since Dad disappeared, he and Sophie had been living on sandwiches. He wasn’t much of a cook, except for pancakes, but it looked like he’d have to learn pretty soon. Ric opened the fridge. Not much left. Butter, a wilted lettuce, some eggs and a ham that was starting to go slimy. No way would Sophie eat that. Maybe if he cooked the ham a bit? He took it out and cut a few slices before wrapping it in foil and shoving it in the oven. Where was the bread? He’d taken the last loaf from the freezer just this morning. Not on the bench. Not in the pantry. He stood for a few moments in thought, and then it hit him. Sophie. She’d fed their last loaf of bread to those bloody birds. To hell with her. To hell with Dad. To hell with the lot of them.

  He marched outside, calling for Sophie, yelling his displeasure to the rising wind. To the dust and the flies and empty dome of the sky. He marched across to the machinery shed, wrenched open the cabins of the tractors and pickers, searched the chicken coop and the abandoned greenhouse, scoured the haystack. No sign of her. He roared out her name, hearing the futile fury in his own voice, knowing that she wouldn’t come.

  There was one place he hadn’t checked. He headed back to the house and caught his reflection in the cracked shaving mirror that hung from a nail beside the water tank. His father’s wild, furious eyes stared back at him. It was like seeing a ghost. Ric ducked under the verandah, too rattled to think straight. He forged carelessly into the darkness before his eyes had properly adjusted. A piece of old reo mesh snagged his boot and sent him crashing to the ground. He cracked his head on a timber crate on the way down. Ric lay there for a moment, spitting dust, the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. The fall had knocked the rage right out of him. Now tears mingled with the blood and dust, making a gluey mud that clung to his lips and cheek. Slowly he hauled himself to his feet. Just as well Sophie hadn’t come when he called. He was in no fit state to deal with a child right now, with anyone.

  Ric swung open the doors of the coolroom, squinting as the light turned itself on. Half a side of mutton still hung from the butcher hooks and two round cheeses stood in the corner, traded no doubt for fish or game. Excellent. He opened the chest freezer. The dressed carcasses of a piglet and four rabbits. Ric opened a plastic-lined box. Damn it, Dad. Full of catfish. Before he could chase it off, an image of Nina’s horrified expression swam into his imagination. Bunyip’s iconic freshwater catfish were rare now, really rare. Everybody knew that. Nina said it was because of the carp, and the missing floods and the disappearing reed beds. Because of chemical runoff, and the freezing flows released from the base of Hopeton Dam in spring for the cotton. Cold water stopped them spawning. He never used to know this stuff, almost wished he still didn’t. But there was no unscrambling the egg. The voice of Nina’s conscience lived inside him now.

  Ric closed the freezer lid, and his gaze fell on the eskies and boxes piled along the wall. He looked through the first box. Fish traps. The next one held nets, including illegal gillnets – rectangular panels of mesh designed to be set on the river bed. Any fish that swam into the net became entangled. They were also notorious for drowning turtles, rakali, water dragons and platypus. Jesus, Dad was incorrigible.

  Ric opened the next box. A parcel wrapped in newspaper. It contained a plastic bag, and inside the bag were envelopes. Bingo. They were filled with wads of cash. Ric counted out the notes, making neat piles of different denominations. Tallied up, there was almost two thousand dollars. Plenty to live on for now. He’d forgotten about Donnalee’s black market trade in beef. Dad and his network bought and sold cattle, a few beasts at a time. They’d slaughter them privately, take what meat they needed and sell off the rest, thus avoiding the taxman. Lucky for him they operated on a cash basis only. What a relief. He could feel his stress levels evening out, his muscles relaxing, his mind calming.

  Ric took the bag, locked up the cool-room and emerged from under the verandah. Sophie was hovering over near the chook house, watching him suspiciously. ‘I’m going into town,’ he said. ‘Want to come?’

  ‘I won’t go to school.’

  ‘Nah, it’s too late for that,’ said Ric. ‘Thought you might like the drive, that’s all. Help me with some shopping.’

  She looked more interested. ‘Could we get ice-cream?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. She still showed no sign of coming closer. ‘How about layers pellets?’ he asked. ‘Got enough food for the hens and those geese of yours?’

  ‘I’ve almost run out.’

  ‘Well, come on then,’ said Ric.

  ‘Do you have enough money for a DVD?’ asked Sophie. ‘I saw The Black Stallion on sale at the supermarket.’

  ‘I think we can manage that,’ he said. ‘Lock up those birds and brush your hair.’ Feigning indifference, he walked off towards the house, watching her from the corner of his eye.

  The temptation was apparently too much. After a few moments’ indecision, Sophie led the geese into the pens Max had built them, shut the gate and trotted to the back door. The birds
paraded up and down the fence, protesting her departure with long honking calls. Ric turned off the oven in the kitchen, and transferred some cash from the bag into his wallet. Sophie came running from her room, hair neatly brushed. Well, that was a turn-up. Dad might still be missing, Nina might still be angry and he still had a cotton harvest to organise somehow. But his cash flow problem was temporarily solved and Sophie was smiling.

  Back from town and Ric was busy going through the papers again. He stopped sorting and listened. Was that laughter? He went out to the hall and peered into the lounge room. Yes, Sophie was giggling in short, high bursts. The soft, glad sound helped ease his aching heart. He hadn’t heard her laugh since Dad disappeared. The Black Stallion was over and Sophie had moved on to Beethoven. They’d taken advantage of the two-for-one deal at the supermarket, but hadn’t saved any money. They’d just bought double the number of DVDs. Sophie still had Beverly Hills Chihuahua and FernGully to go.

  His daughter had almost been well behaved since their trip to the shop. She’d helped him wash the dishes. She’d had a shower. And after extracting a promise that she wouldn’t have to go to school the next day, she’d agreed to put the geese outside for the night. All except Odette, of course. Her favourite goose was sitting beside her on the couch, but at least the bird was on a towel. Sophie giggled again as the St Bernard puppy on screen barked along to some classical music. A can of Coke and a big bowl of chips sat on the coffee table in front of her. A big improvement on milk and figs, in Sophie’s estimation at least. Ric crept away before she saw him, and fetched another beer from the kitchen. He checked the time. Six o’clock, and he didn’t have to worry about dinner, just pop the frozen pizzas in the oven. But not yet. Sophie was still full of chips and lollies, and he wanted to keep organising the dining room.

  A wave of missing Nina crashed in on him. How perfect it would be to have her here, sharing his beer and pizza, sharing his bed. On an impulse, he found her number in his phone and pressed call. Then he changed his mind just as quickly. She probably wouldn’t answer and, anyway, the stolen water, her lack of faith, Dad’s disappearance – those things stood squarely between them. He cast the idea of her from his mind. Right now he had more pressing responsibilities – to Dad, to Sophie, and to the cotton.

  Ric resumed sorting. The table was almost empty now. Pale paper towers rose like a mini city skyline around the edges of the room. He stood with his back against the sideboard. What to tackle next? Idly he opened the drawer beside him. Once it had contained silver napkin rings and cake servers and little glass dessert bowls. Now it was filled with papers instead. He pulled out a bundle of documents with a rubber band around it. A bank statement slipped out and fell to the floor. He retrieved it and looked at the date. Just three weeks ago. That couldn’t be right. An enormous injection of funds had gone into the farm operating account. Enough to put it back into credit. Where had the money come from?

  Ric moved a pile from one of the seats, pulled the chair over to the table and sat down with the bundle. Somehow he had to make sense of all this. The first document was a thick sheaf of stapled pages titled Business Plan in Support of Loan Application. He flipped through it – balance sheets, columns of profit and loss, copies of recent income tax returns. Ric returned to the start and began reading. Fuck. It was an expansion plan prepared by Dad’s accountant – a proposal for the purchase of Billabong Bend. Estimated purchase price, analysis of the cost of converting to cotton, projection of income for the next five years.

  He put it down and flicked through the rest of the papers until he found a letter from the bank. Confirmation of the loan. It had been granted as per the business plan and was conditional upon the expansion of Donnalee Station, via the purchase of Billabong Bend. Beneath the letter was the actual loan agreement, signed by his father. He read through it carefully, struggling with the legalese. Why couldn’t these bloody lawyers just say what they meant? He got to the repayment provisions. Impossibly large annual payments, the first one due in ten months. At least he had some time up his sleeve. Now to the conditions. Shit, if he didn’t make an offer on Billabong Bend, they’d be violating the terms of the agreement. The bank could call in the loan and demand immediate payment. But the original debt on the farm account had already swallowed up half of Dad’s new advance. They couldn’t afford to pay the lot back at once, not until after harvest, maybe not even then. The only way out of this mess was forward.

  Ric scratched his jaw, took the empty to the kitchen and put the pizzas in the oven. He grabbed another beer and faced the window, staring into the middle distance, looking but not seeing as the red sun sank from the sky. His heartbeat echoed in his ears. The auction was next week. Dad, wherever he was, had locked them into buying Billabong and converting it to cotton. There was no way around it. And he’d doomed any chance Ric might have with Nina at the same time.

  CHAPTER 28

  Nina opened her eyes, instantly awake. Normally it took her a few moments to place herself in the new day, but not this morning. Today was the day of reckoning – auction day.

  Lockie had arrived last night, and they’d eaten sauce and sausages in rolled-up bread out on the back porch. They’d drunk cider and talked about the remarkable heatwave that had marched unabated into autumn. They’d argued about the tricks and traps of making bids and trawled endlessly over the events of the past few weeks.

  Almost a month now since Max disappeared, and the Drover’s community was divided into two camps. Those who believed in her father’s innocence – mainly dry-land farmers and their families and friends. And those who swore he was guilty of murder – mainly irrigators and their supporters. Dad had gone to school with a lot of these people, played football with them, regarded them as mates. He’d known them all his life. But that wasn’t enough to protect him from the grinding rumour mill.

  There was no doubting Lockie’s loyalty though. It felt good to have someone so unequivocally on her side. And Nina had missed their talks. A few ciders in, and she’d tackled him on that long-ago schoolyard lie.

  ‘It was just a joke.’ Lockie’s expression had belied his words. A muscle twitched in his cheek and he couldn’t meet her eyes.

  ‘So you knew about me and Ric back then. You’ve known all this time.’ Lockie swallowed hard. ‘You should have told me.’ He slid further down in his chair. ‘Your ears have gone red,’ she said.

  ‘Is it too late to say I’m sorry?’

  Nina had let him squirm for a bit. ‘Don’t worry. I wouldn’t want to be judged for every stupid thing I did at sixteen.’ But a wave of regret had washed over her. Regret for what might have been. She’d traced the wood grain in the tabletop with her finger. His hand had crept over hers and she hadn’t pulled away.

  Nina yawned and stretched. Her mind had forgotten how to sleep properly, leaving her body in a constant state of fatigue. She pushed Jinx from the bed, sat up and shook her head to clear it. Today was so important. She needed to focus on the auction, on buying Billabong. On something other than bloody Max and his disappearance, and how it had ruined everything.

  The police had been back. They’d interviewed her, along with half of the town. She’d tried to explain that they were wrong to suspect Dad. That he was the one who’d been hurt by Max, not the other way around. That while they were wasting time on this dead-end theory they could have been investigating what really happened. But the detectives had just nodded and exchanged serious, knowing glances, as if her attempts to persuade them were further confirmation of Dad’s guilt.

  On the advice of their family solicitor, Mum and Dad had made an appointment with Frank Trumble, a Moree lawyer specialising in criminal cases. Nina had gone along to their first meeting for moral support, and because she didn’t trust her parents to faithfully relay the conversation. Frank Trumble was a hawk-like man, with a thin swooping nose, sharp intelligent eyes and bony fingers. ‘Don’t worry,’ he’d said. ‘We’re a long way yet from any formal investigation.’ He’d cocked his he
ad at them. ‘Missing-body murders are notoriously hard to prove.’

  ‘But not impossible?’ Mum asked.

  ‘No, not impossible. But the prosecution has the unenviable task of convincing a jury that someone is, in fact, dead. That they won’t show up alive and well, months after a conviction has been returned.’

  ‘And exactly how does the prosecution go about doing that?’ asked Nina.

  The lawyer shifted his gaze to her. ‘First they must prove that the victim’s normal behaviour has ceased, abruptly and completely. No bank transactions, no phone calls, no contact with friends or relatives, no appointments kept.’

  Nina swallowed. That wouldn’t be difficult. As far as she knew, nobody had seen or heard of Max since that last awful afternoon. The lawyer’s casual references to murders and victims had thrown her. ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then they must present a compelling brief of circumstantial evidence. Motive, for example. They’d have a fair chance with that one.’ Frank’s keen eyes did not miss the glances exchanged between her parents. ‘There is a history of hostility between you and the missing man, Jim, is there not? And you told me that he’d just been discovered stealing water. An unforgiveable crime, wouldn’t you say, considering this dreadful drought?’ Dad shifted in his chair and stayed silent. Frank had pressed his lips together in a thin smile. ‘That sort of thing all goes to motive. Essentially it comes down to means, motive and opportunity. If a suspect satisfies all of these circumstances, the police may take it further.’