Billabong Bend

by Jennifer Scoullar

  So she’d been riding the quad bike behind his back. He didn’t have the heart to tell her off. He might never have the heart again. In a carefully measured tone, he said, ‘That was very cool, but you mustn’t ride the bike. It’s not safe.’ She opened her mouth to protest. ‘How about from now on I go with you? We can both take your geese for a fly?’

  Sophie’s eyes lit up. ‘You’d come with me?’

  ‘Sure I would. Now shut away those birds and get ready for school.’

  For once she didn’t argue. Ric found himself thinking about the Christmas phone call with his mother, when she’d wanted to know more about her new granddaughter. Three months on, and he still wouldn’t be able to answer most of her questions. How was he going to get through to Sophie? Without Max, without Nina . . . Just the two of them, like Sophie had said in the letter. It was up to him now.

  Sophie slipped into the lounge room. She wore her school dress and had made a fair attempt to brush her hair. ‘What’s your favourite colour?’ he asked her.

  ‘Why do you want to know that?’

  ‘Do I need a reason?’

  ‘Green,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Green . . . that’s a very good colour.’ He nodded in satisfaction and she stared at him like he was mad. ‘You’ve missed the bus, by the way. Guess I’ll have to drive you.’

  ‘I hate the bus. There’s this big boy on it. Brodie. He calls me names and says Poppi was murdered. Was Poppi murdered, Dad?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you’ve been having problems on the bus?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Would you like me to talk to the principal?’

  ‘No.’ She frowned. ‘You’ll make it worse.’

  ‘Then I’ll drive you to and from school until we find out what’s happened to Poppi. No arguments.’ Her smile was small but it was there.

  Soon they were bumping down the potholed road to Drover’s Flat. It seemed the perfect time for a long overdue talk. Sophie was a captive audience, after all. ‘I owe you an apology. We never followed up on that horse,’ he said. ‘I’ve been so distracted with looking for Poppi . . . How about I get one of those Horse Deals magazines at the general store and we go through it tonight?’

  Sophie’s expression brightened. ‘Can I tell people at school?’

  ‘Sure you can. But remember, no more wagging classes.’ Ric slowed down to negotiate a badly corrugated section of road, then extended a hand to his daughter. ‘And we’re going to set aside some time each night to do your homework. Together. You never know, I might learn something. Deal?’

  Sophie shook his hand. ‘Deal.’

  The bullet-riddled sign said Drover’s Flat, population 701, elevation 130 metres. Why anybody should care about the altitude of a town marooned in these flatlands had always puzzled Ric. They drove across the river, past the dilapidated church and into the main drag. There was a garage. A post office. A little supermarket, and the produce store run by Nina’s parents. When they reached the school, Sophie showed no inclination to leave the car. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Only one more day, then it’s the weekend.’

  Sophie sighed, climbed over the back seat and kicked open the stiff door. ‘Don’t forget to post my letter,’ she said, then headed through the gate and up the concrete path to the buildings. Nobody ran to greet her. Nobody waved or said hello. She cut a lonely figure in the playground.

  If only he could ask Dad’s advice about Sophie. Ric missed Max with a vengeance. It was so unfair. Just when they were getting to know each other, putting the animosity of their past behind them. Just when they were properly becoming father and son.

  Ric missed him on a purely practical level too. The crop was almost ready for harvest, the dying fields turning snowy white. In another week there’d be nothing but stalks, standing stark brown and dead against the everlasting blue of the sky. Groaning beneath a woolly weight of cottonseed, poised to surrender their rich bounty of fibre. With the help of his cousin Tony, Ric had hired a contracting team, but it was expensive compared to organising it himself. Very expensive. Only the prospect of such a bumper crop could justify the cost.

  Ric had taken Tony, a cotton grower himself at Moree, on a tour of Donnalee. He’d surveyed the heavily laden plants with envious eyes. ‘Never seen anything like it,’ he said. ‘And all that water? That’s Max thumbing his nose at this goddamned drought. Thumbing his nose at God himself.’ There was a faraway look in his eye. ‘Can’t believe he’s really gone, can you? That he won’t be here to see this lot harvested. What a buzz he’d have got from that, eh? You’ve got to get this right, Ric. Got to get this harvest in. It’ll be the last thing you can do for Max, kind of like a tribute.’

  Thanks, Tony. Thanks for piling on the pressure. Now if he failed, it would be tantamount to dishonouring his dead father.

  Ric drove on past the produce store, even though he needed pellets for Sophie’s geese. He couldn’t stomach seeing Nina’s father – serving customers, loading trucks, going about his day while his own father lay lost in some mosquito-infested swamp.

  Oh. Nina’s black Rodeo was parked outside the general store. Well, however tough it might be, he needed to post Sophie’s letter and get a few things. A deep breath and he was going in. Part of him hoped things might still work out between him and Nina. Even though she was obsessed with preserving Billabong as some kind of a shrine to nature. If he could only explain things. He hadn’t asked for this. Hell, up until now he’d been her biggest supporter. He’d helped take Eva to Billabong. He hadn’t liked the idea of taking the old woman back there, not at all. But he’d gone along with it for Nina’s sake because he loved her. Because he wanted Billabong to be hers.

  Well, like it or not, the place belonged to him now. Ric got out of the car and headed down the street towards the store, tilting his hat against the glaring sun. He’d never known weather like this. Already April and still no autumn break. Dust ruled. Clouds came and went and didn’t bother trying to rain any more. Even the street trees were shrivelling, the tough little crepe myrtles lining the bitumen. The whole world seemed ready to dry up and blow away.

  He was a few strides from the door now. It opened, ringing the tiny bell, and two people emerged. Nina . . . and Lockie. Bloody Lockie. They stopped when they saw him, and Nina’s gorgeous eyes flashed danger.

  ‘Morning, Nina.’

  She and Lockie exchanged a look and jealousy burned through him. Had Lockie’s hands trailed along her skin last night? Had his lips touched hers? The idea was unbearable. Lockie’s expression remained wooden, but betrayed a certain self-satisfaction around the eyes. Ric’s knuckles tightened into fists. He forced his fingers open, but they had a mind of their own and clenched tight again. Perhaps his fingers were right. Perhaps all his misery would depart with a single blow to Lockie’s smug face.

  Nina ducked around him. Lockie followed, hand on her elbow, shouldering him a fraction as he went by. Ric bristled, shoved him back and the two men turned to face each other, stiff-legged, like two dogs spoiling for a fight. Nina pushed her way between them, close enough that he could feel her sweet breath on his face. Her eyes flew up to his and the physical pull was strong. Surely Nina felt it too? He swore that if his arms reached for her, she would be in them.

  Lockie’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s your problem?’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Nina. ‘He’s not worth it.’

  Ric stepped back like he’d been struck. She turned and walked away. Lockie shot him a poisonous glance and hurried after her.

  ‘You poor bastard,’ said Ric beneath his breath, disgusted with himself. ‘You poor lovesick bastard.’ Forget Nina Moore. Time to get a grip, to stop mooning around after her. He wandered the aisles of the general store for the groceries he needed, bought a fan for Sophie’s room, remembered her horse magazine. He put the shopping in the car and counted his cash. It had to last for a while longer yet. Six weeks before he’d see any harvest money.

  Ric sc
ratched the unfamiliar stubble on his chin. He still needed food for the chooks and geese, but was more determined than ever not to patronise the produce store. Instead he drove to the Royal Hotel, a place where he was guaranteed to find a sympathetic ear and with any luck, some layers pellets. He pushed in the door. Gino was polishing the bar. ‘Bit early for a drink, isn’t it?’

  ‘Morning, Gino. You’ve got chooks, right?’

  ‘Not just chooks.’ Gino stood up straight. ‘Show birds, mate. Bloody champions. Silkies, Old English Game bantams, Plymouth Rocks . . . Got ’em all.’ He stopped polishing and his old eyes grew dreamy. ‘Just moved into ducks as well. Absolutely love ’em.’ He pulled out his wallet and showed Ric a photo of a pretty black duck with a blue-green sheen. ‘Took out champion Cayuga female with this little beauty at Moree this year. Not bad for a duck beginner, eh?’

  Ric tried to look suitably impressed and hide his amusement at the same time.

  Gino inspected his face. ‘What’s up? You after some birds?’

  ‘God, no,’ said Ric. ‘I’ve already got enough damn birds at home as it is.’ Gino harrumphed and looked slightly hurt. ‘What I need is chook food. Can’t stomach the idea of handing money over to Jim Moore.’

  Gino nodded. ‘Can’t blame you there. And you’re not the only one. A lot of fellas are boycotting that store.’ He beckoned for Ric to follow him. The old sheds out the back were filled with sacks of feed – chaff, bran and barley. Dog biscuits and horse nuts and calf meal. A semitrailer-load of hay was parked along the back fence. Gino shooed aside the inquisitive assortment of shining poultry roaming the yard. He pointed to a pallet of layers pellets. ‘Take a bag. It’s on the house.’ When Ric protested, Gino growled, ‘You wouldn’t argue with an old man, would you?’

  He extended his hand and Ric shook it solemnly. ‘Thanks, mate.’

  Gino smiled. ‘Just remember, the next one, you pay.’ Then his expression grew serious. ‘Your dad . . . still nothing?’

  ‘No.’ Ric swung the twenty-kilo bag onto his shoulders and started for the gate.

  ‘Put that in the car, then come and have a talk.’

  Inside, Ric found Gino quarrelling with the coffee machine behind the bar while it grumbled and hissed in protest. He sat down and took off his hat. A bottle of marsala and two little glasses stood on the countertop. Gino turned, muttering curses under his breath. ‘That damn thing is more trouble than a woman.’ When he saw Ric, his scowl disappeared. He raised the bottle, asking the question with his bushy eyebrows.

  ‘Thought it was too early,’ said Ric.

  ‘Ah, chi se ne frega,’ said Gino with a dismissive wave of his hand. He poured them both some wine. ‘Salute.’ They both took a drink of the smooth, golden liquid, then another. Gino rolled his tongue about his lips, savouring each last drop. ‘How are you managing?’ he said. ‘You and your daughter?’

  ‘We’ll get there,’ said Ric. The hit of intense sweetness calmed him, loosened his tongue. ‘She wants a horse. Sophie. She wants a bloody horse and I’ve promised to get her one.’

  Gino nodded sagely and topped up their glasses. ‘Your father had the same idea. Tell you where there’s a good horse. My sister Julia, she’s got one. Bombproof black mare, sweet as can be. Her girl was all fired up about going to pony club and then she changes her mind. Wants to play netball instead. That little horse? Just going to waste in a paddock.’ He took a sip, holding it in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. ‘Max already had me talk to Julia. He was all set on getting that horse for your Sophie, God bless him.’

  ‘Would your sister wait till the harvest’s in, do you think? I’m a bit short right now.’

  ‘I can ask her, but if you’re anything like your father, you’ll find a way to get hold of some cash in a hurry.’

  Ric snorted. If he was anything like Max, he’d gamble the last of his cash at the TAB. Ric had never shared his father’s faith in lady luck, whether it was a crop in the ground or a horse in a race; whether it was stealing water or a wife threatening to leave. Dad always believed it would work out, that he’d win in the end.

  Ric thought back to the last conversation he’d had with his father, the fateful morning of Max’s birthday. That little horse Sophie wants so much? It may not be too far away. I’ve got a plan to win us some money. What had his father meant? Did this plan have something to do with his disappearance?

  Ric gazed about the dim bar. Framed black and white photographs of the river in its heyday lined the walls. Old paddle-steamers. Barges piled high with wheat and wool. The dry dock at Manning. Building the Hopeton Dam. His eyes were drawn to a particular photo – a huge Murray cod, strung up to a wooden beam. They didn’t grow them like that any more. It was an image from the Bunyip’s glory days, when it ran wild and untamed right through to the Barwon, the Darling and on down the Murray to the sea.

  And Ric suddenly yearned for the river again, the way he’d yearned for it as a boy. When its shadowy reaches and strange, shifting light had utterly bewitched him. When it was all grace and beauty and poetry, and he’d measured it in more than megalitres. ‘Can you look after Sophie tonight?’

  ‘Good as done,’ said Gino. ‘It’ll make Enza a happy woman, to fuss over your little one. And I’ll show her my birds.’

  ‘Great. She’ll like that. I’ll drop her off after tea.’

  ‘But where are you going?’

  ‘Down the river, first thing in the morning.’ Ric stood up and put on his hat. ‘I’m going down the river.’

  CHAPTER 31

  Ric rose early, before first light. Toast and a pot of coffee. Where was that thermos? He’d stowed his old fishing gear in the boat the night before. Ric fed the chooks and geese. Searched out Max’s leather-bound hip flask and filled it with bourbon. Nothing left but to pack the esky and head off.

  The boat sped along the dark water, transforming its tranquil surface into a choppy wake. The lantern cast a circle of light, bordered by mist. Pale stars still shone, small and faraway, and a skinny moon shivered in the sky. Ric watched the water, and hunched his shoulders against the unfamiliar chill of autumn air. Did he expect to find his father? Hardly. This trip was a pilgrimage of farewell.

  Ric came upon the confluence of the Kingfisher. He turned up the wild waterway to find it rising. Rain must have fallen in the faraway southern catchments. He wanted to call Nina, tell her a ‘fresh’ was on the way. But no, she’d find out for herself soon enough. No doubt she’d continue to treat Billabong Bend as her own private property. He tried to summon up some bitterness, as if it might vaccinate him against the pull of her. Who was he fooling? If she made one move towards putting things right between them, he’d be back at her side, quick as a shot.

  An hour later and the sky was brightening. He loved the measured way the world lit up before sunrise. The dawn chorus of birdsong and the smell of dew-damp leaves. The steam curling from the reedy river. The hushed expectancy and mysterious early landscape of shadow and light.

  Ric rounded a bend as the sun came up and he slowed the boat to a crawl. This place felt familiar. A towering twin-trunked red gum stood on the right bank. It bore the scar of a heliman, a bark shield, removed long ago with a stone axe. Freeman had shown them that tree, him and Nina. And he’d shown them something else too.

  Ric countered the water’s lazy flow with a nudging forward motion, nosing his bow into the weeping willows that were so ubiquitous throughout the Murray-Darling, even in this wild place. And then – there it was. The entrance to a meander, hidden by trailing branches, opening up to a chain of deep, reflective pools. Magical. Somewhere along this backwater, Freeman had shown two children platypus burrows beneath the bank. Told them dreaming stories of beautiful maidens and fierce warriors. Summoned a great codfish with a clap of his hands.

  Ric pushed through the willows and killed the motor. Taking up the oars, he rowed along the peaceful channel, barely raising a ripple. Past green tangles of lignum. Past cumbungi reed beds taller than
a man. Nina would love this place. When he reached a wide fern-fringed pool he shipped his oars and sat awhile in silence. He tied up the boat and readied the old rod and line. What better way to remember Max than to spend a few hours fishing?

  Ric attached a sinker, baited the hook, chose a lure and cast towards the bank. Then he sat down to think. Occasionally he played with the rod, mimicking the darting movement of minnows. Sunshine filtered through the treetops and he pulled off his shirt. Clouds of gnats danced above the water. A pair of bold willy wagtails skimmed the surface, hunting beetles and damsel flies. Their musical five-note call repeated over and over, soothing him into a kind of trance. Sweet-pretty-creature . . . sweet-pretty-creature. Cares slipped away, there with the sun on his back, watching the cheeky antics of the bold little black and white birds. Time wore on. He ate his sandwiches and drank his coffee. Twice the bait was nibbled off the hook, but he didn’t mind. Catching a fish was neither here nor there.

  What was that? The boat had moved, yet no breeze stirred the gum leaf canopy above him. He scratched the four-day growth on his chin. There, it moved again, as if nudged from beneath. A submerged log, maybe? Ric went to the stern and scanned the water. Ripples ran out along its surface where there was no wind or tossed pebble. Ric held his breath as a broad shadow passed beneath the boat. And then there it was, a colossal cod, regarding him from the brown river with ancient eyes far larger than his own. There was something wise and fearless, almost friendly, about its gaze. Ric nearly dropped the rod. The next second the cod was gone, with a toss of its great head and a graceful swish of its blunt tail. The boat rocked softly as it went.

  Ric remembered to breathe. What a fish! As big as a man. Was this the cod Freeman showed them as children? Recollections of that long-lost day came back only in fragments, no matter how hard he reached for the complete memory. Murray cod this size were apex predators, lions of the river, each owning perhaps a two-hundred-metre stretch of water. Freeman’s cod could live anywhere along the backwater, if it was even still alive. Ric looked for the fish again, but there was no sign. Perhaps it had been some sort of waking dream.