The White Earth

by Andrew McGahan

  The surgeons were confident, however. They had relieved the pressure in his skull cavity, and excised the tumour. Unfortunately, it had been necessary to also remove most of the inner canal and the remains of the bone structure, so he would lose all hearing in his right ear. The doctors also noted that the boy was malnourished, dehydrated, extensively bruised and badly sunburnt. They would have referred the case to a social worker,on the suspicion of parental neglect, if not for the regrettable fact that the child’s mother was recently deceased.

  Ruth had listened to all this in a daze. She was in shock, and her own burns were serious. She had mumbled something about glandular fever, but the doctors only shook their heads, studied her curiously, and then left her alone.

  Rain sheeted down outside the window.

  Ruth was coughing again. She should go home and rest. The boy would sleep through, and there was so much for her to arrange in the coming days. Her father’s funeral. And maybe even the funeral of William’s mother, for Ruth was aware of no other family to take on the task. Then there would be the investigations into the fire, by the police, the fire brigade, insurance companies. And after all that, weeks from now, there would be the question of the inheritance to be settled.

  Suddenly Ruth could have laughed, if the skin of her face had not been so tight and sore. Because, after everything, her father had died intestate. The only copy of his will had burned along with the House. Kuran Station belonged to no one.

  There would be trouble about that, of course. Her father had made his last wishes clear enough, but with nothing in writing, the property lay open to any number of claims. Mrs Griffith, for instance. Ruth had seen the old woman in the Powell hospital, where she was being treated for smoke inhalation. Despite her condition, the housekeeper had lost none of her grim tenacity. She was already telling anyone who would listen that John McIvor had exploited her for decades, that she had cooked and cleaned for him for over twenty years without being paid a cent, and now was owed compensation. And Ruth did not doubt that she was serious.

  Then there was William. The station belonged to him now, if her father’s last acts meant anything at all. But he was only a boy, and not her father’s direct descendant. Ruth could dispute William’s claim, if she wanted, and inherit the property herself. And perhaps she should really do it. But the thought roused no feelings in her, sitting there in the hospital room. When her father was alive it had seemed important that she … that she what? Take the station from him? But now he was gone, and all her arguments felt empty. She remembered, shamefully somehow, the old women she had met in Cherbourg, and the way they had watched her, as she talked eagerly of leases and land and rights. The look in their pale eyes. Measuring. And, despite all her promises, unconvinced.

  But couldn’t she prove them wrong? If the property was rightfully hers, then why couldn’t she give it away? She could go back to Cherbourg and hand over the deeds. But she was lawyer enough to know, perfectly well, that it would never happen that way. Mrs Griffith would fight it. Or maybe the boy. Or if not them, someone else. A long forgotten relation would appear; maybe even the state government would intervene, disputing the validity of private deals made decades ago, and leases that were supposedly perpetual … No, if anyone from Cherbourg really wanted the place, they would have to lodge their claim, along with everybody else. It was fifteen thousand acres of prime grazing country. In this world, something like that wasn’t just given back. It had to be fought for.

  Her thoughts tumbled to a halt.

  It was something her father might have said.

  She gazed down at William. Such a sad and silent child. She didn’t think she had ever seen him smile. Pity bit at her, and a weight settled against her heart. Was he her responsibility now? Oh … but she was too old. The burden couldn’t fall on her.

  It was time to go. Her hands and face hurt, and every bone ached. She would leave the boy to his sleep, and then maybe later they would talk and see what needed to be done. She turned towards the door. Just then William stirred, moaning incoherent words. She hesitated. But he was sedated, she knew, and too exhausted, surely, for bad dreams.

  She glanced once more at the rain against the windows. A memory came. The smell of earth, and of wheat, and the feeling of a familiar hand upon her head, rough with calluses, and so strong. All of it wasted, all of it ruined.

  Ruth fought the tears, for her bandaged hands could not brush them away.

  Then she returned to the chair, and the long vigil of the night.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to Annette, Christa and Colette, and everyone else at Allen & Unwin, for all their hard work and patience with this book. The same goes for Fiona and everyone at Curtis Brown.

  Special thanks to Michelle de Kretser for her demanding editing.

  Thanks also to Professor Maurice French for his advice, and for the resource of his comprehensive histories. And to Jonathan Richards for some obscurer details.

  And finally, thanks to my brother Martin for his medical information, and to my brother Peter, for a timely comment about water catchments.

  Any factual mistakes and flaws are due to me, none of the above.