by Sue Orr
Nickie nodded. They hadn’t talked about how they’d get the calves to follow them down the road. Gabrielle slipped the latch on the calf pen and crawled into it. She put her hands in her raincoat pocket and pulled out something. She held her hands out open to the calves, offering whatever it was to each of them. There were four calves and one after the other they put their noses in her palms and licked.
Gabrielle backed slowly out of the pen on her hands and knees, then stood up and walked backwards onto the road, holding her hands out. The calves jammed themselves up in the doorway of the pen, but finally they were out and following her.
‘Change of plan,’ she shouted. ‘Hold your hands out.’
She poured white powder into both Nickie’s hands.
‘What is it?’
‘Taste it,’ she said, grinning.
‘Sugar.’
Gabrielle locked the door to the calf pen and they refilled their hands. She had a whole big bag of sugar in the inside pocket of her coat. ‘Walk beside me, holding your hands out behind you,’ she said. ‘Like this.’
They set off along the road, away from the cowshed, towards the Gilbert farm. The wet mouths of two calves tickled Nickie’s palms, their lips searching for sugar. When they couldn’t find any more, they started to lick. When they stopped licking, they pushed and nudged until the girls stopped and refilled their hands.
Nickie’s biggest fear was that someone would drive along the road and see them. If that happened, no story — not even a Gabrielle Baxter special — would save them. But they were lucky. At two in the morning, in the middle of a lightning storm, all the normal people in the world were safe and asleep in their houses.
They finally reached the turnoff to Gabrielle’s road. Gabrielle stopped. She took Nickie’s arm and pulled her close.
‘Look,’ Gabrielle said, her breath hot in Nickie’s ear. ‘Look at the Gilberts’ house.’
There was a light on halfway down the side of the house. There was no sign of any movement behind the curtains — not that Nickie could see.
‘Shall we go back?’
‘No way.’ Gabrielle pulled the bag of sugar out of her coat again. She didn’t even look up. ‘Here, hold your hands out. We’ll cross the road and walk in the long grass, down nearer to the drain.’
The calves were happy to follow the girls, who crouched to make their silhouettes as small as possible. They crawled along until they were one paddock past the house, on the other side, then they walked the calves back up to the road.
Nickie turned and looked back at the house. No more lights had gone on. Gilbert’s dogs were barking, but there were dogs barking everywhere.
‘We made it,’ she shouted to Gabrielle. For the first time since Nickie had jumped out the window, she was more excited than scared. ‘Yay for the storm.’
‘Shit,’ said Gabrielle. She was still looking at the Gilberts’ house. ‘Look at that.’
Nickie looked again, but saw no light. ‘I don’t see anything …’
‘Look at the clothes line.’
Nickie stared hard at the house, at the clothes line. She could only just make it out — a silhouette against the side of the white house. Then she saw. Someone was standing at the line. Mrs Gilbert. It had to be her. Her arms reached up high and a big sheet flapped around her like a sail off a yacht.
‘She’s bringing in the washing,’ Nickie said. ‘It’s two o’clock in the morning and it’s a huge storm, and she’s bringing in the washing. Nuts.’
‘No,’ said Gabrielle. She was topping up their sugar, not even looking at what she was doing. Her eyes didn’t leave the distant figure of Mrs Gilbert. ‘That’s not what she’s doing, Nickie.’
Nickie looked again. Mrs Gilbert wasn’t bringing in the washing. The sheet was pegged to the line now, flapping high in the air. Nickie watched as Mrs Gilbert bent down, then stood. She had another armful of cloth, and she pegged that to the line too. Mrs Gilbert wasn’t bringing in the washing. She was hanging it out.
‘Fucking insane,’ said Gabrielle. ‘Come on. Let’s get going.’
It wasn’t far now. Gabrielle knew where the herd was. The girls marched silently along the tanker track, past the cowshed and down the race behind it. They got to the herd paddock and Gabrielle undid the gate. Nickie held it open while she tipped the last of the sugar into her hands and walked into the paddock. The four calves followed her.
They crouched and watched. The cows nearest the gate woke up when the calves came in. Or they might have been already awake in the storm. They came over slowly and lowered their heads down to check out the babies.
Nickie squeezed Gabrielle’s hand. ‘Success.’
‘Yep. They just needed proper milk. Their own milk. Not boiling hot disgusting milk powder.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Gabrielle said.
Gabrielle’s house was close, just a couple of minutes further on. Nickie would have to walk back home on her own. Past mad Mrs Gilbert.
‘I’ll come back with you,’ Gabrielle said.
‘You don’t need to. I’ll be okay on my own.’
‘I want to.’
They headed back past the cowshed to the road. Nickie figured Gabrielle knew she was scared. At least that’s what Nickie thought. But as they approached the Gilberts’ house again, Gabrielle slowed down.
‘Let’s take a look,’ she said.
The storm was still strong, though there was less thunder and lightning now. Mrs Gilbert was nowhere to be seen — nor was there any washing on the line.
‘Far out. She put all that stuff out, then took it straight off the line,’ Gabrielle said. ‘Come on, let’s get closer.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I’m going to see what’s going on. Come on.’
She grabbed Nickie’s hand. Nickie pulled away from her.
‘No way, Gabrielle.’
‘I’m going,’ she said. She was already heading towards the drain that went along the roadside in front of the Gilberts’ house.
‘Come on, the drain’s still empty. We can get right up to the house in the drains.’
She disappeared. Nickie slid down beside her.
‘You’re more nuts than her. Than Mrs Gilbert,’ Nickie said. This close, she could see Gabrielle’s wide smile.
‘This is so neat. We can go all the way home in the drains, now we don’t have the calves. We can live our whole secret lives down in the drains.’
Gabrielle led, Nickie followed. Somehow it felt as though that’s what Nickie had been doing her whole life. They pushed slowly through the grassy bottom of the drain, their heads ducked, just to be sure.
They moved on, back into the open drain. Every few steps, Gabrielle lifted her head to see where they were. There was no talking now, not even tiny whispers. Finally, she took a look and crouched back down beside Nickie. She pointed towards the house.
Together, they slowly stood. Nickie leaned against the side of the drain, ready to drop in a second if she needed to.
They were outside the window with the light on. Nickie’s legs wanted to fold up, like paper when you make it into a fan. There was a fence between the drain and the house. Gabrielle climbed up, leaving her gumboots behind, and squeezed under the bottom wire. She held the wire up for Nickie.
The curtains at the lit window were pulled shut in the middle, but on each side, there was a little gap. The wind rushed around Nickie and Gabrielle and raindrops hammered hard on their faces. Gabrielle tiptoed to one side of the window and stood hard against the house. She pointed for Nickie to do the same on the other. Together, they peeked into the two gaps in the curtain.
Nickie thought they’d be looking into a bedroom, but it was the wash house.
They were both in there. Mr Gilbert and Mrs. Mrs Gilbert was in a nightie, long sleeves, with flowers on it and Mr Gilbert was wearing long pyjama pants and a white singlet that sagged under his arms. There was black hair growing out of his should
ers and his back.
Mr Gilbert punched Mrs Gilbert. While Nickie watched, he punched her twice. The first time he hit her in the stomach. His fist was bunched up tight like a boxer’s and he gave it all he had. Nickie couldn’t see his face, but she could see Mrs Gilbert’s. She wasn’t screaming, or crying, she just wasn’t … anything. Nothing was exactly the right word to describe the look on Mrs Gilbert’s face.
Mrs Gilbert fell over after that first punch. She lay on the floor holding her stomach, her knees pulled up. Nickie could still see her face. The only difference between the way she looked after being punched in the stomach and now was that her eyes were closed.
The next punch was to her face. It would have landed between her eye and her ear. It was just as mean as the first hit. Nickie waited for her to get up and fight back, or at least try to get away, but she didn’t move. She stayed completely still on the floor.
He stopped after that. He stood over her, his arms hanging at his side. He still had his back to the window.
Please don’t turn around now.
Mr Gilbert bent down to Mrs Gilbert. He picked her up under her arms, the way a shearer picks up a sheep he’s going to shear. His hands were across Mrs Gilbert’s boobs. He propped her up then, not back on the floor but instead against the wooden bench next to the ringer washing machine. She was slumped over it, sort of standing, sort of leaning. It was as though she’d been standing there doing the washing and got tired and thought to herself I’ll just lean over the bench for a minute and put my head in my hands and have a little rest.
Mr Gilbert held her there. His hands were on her shoulders, he was staring at the back of her. Nickie guessed that’s what he was doing. You couldn’t actually see his face. He dropped one hand away from her shoulder, and lifted up her nightie. He lifted it right up high so you could see Mrs Gilbert’s undies. He left one hand on her shoulder and with the other he pulled down her undies. He pulled and pulled until they were right down on the floor, then he kicked her leg — not a hard kick, like the punches, just a small kick, like you’d kick a ball to move it out of your way — and Mrs Gilbert lifted her foot. Her undies went completely to the floor.
Nickie didn’t see what Mr Gilbert did next, one hand was still on Mrs Gilbert’s shoulder and she couldn’t see what he was doing with his other hand. But there was a clear view of Mrs Gilbert’s bum for a couple of seconds and it was pale white with purple bruises all over it. Not the sort of bruises you get when you fall off a bike or bump into the edge of the table. These were the biggest bruises Nickie had ever seen. It was only a glimpse of them because straight away, Mr Gilbert leaned right up close to her and started pushing against her with his own body.
He kept pushing, then he stopped. He stayed there, quite still, for a few seconds, his head resting against the back of hers.
Finally, he stepped backwards from Mrs Gilbert. He turned around. Nickie held her breath, waiting for him to look at the window. But he never glanced up.
Nickie swallowed hard, turning away from the window. What had just happened, she understood. What it was. Gabrielle was still watching, from the other side of the curtain. Nickie didn’t want to look back inside, but her eyes decided for themselves to do it.
Mrs Gilbert hadn’t moved. Nickie thought she might be dead, except a dead person would have slid away from the bench and onto the floor by now. Her nightie had fallen back down, covering her bum, but her undies were still on the floor next to her feet.
Mr Gilbert was holding her by the shoulders, but not like before. He was holding her gently, the way a person holds someone when they’re crying and need cheering up. Sort of like a hug, but from the side. Her head was hanging down and he was whispering to her, whispering in her ear. He was pushing her hair away gently from her face, tucking it behind her ear, and his fingers were lightly touching her skin. It would have been exactly the place where he had hit her.
The last thing Nickie saw him do was reach away from Mrs Gilbert, towards a pile of washing on the bench right next to the ringer washing machine. He picked up the thing on top of the pile, it looked like a hanky. He wiped his eyes. He wiped and wiped and then he stopped and just held the cloth or hanky or whatever it was over his eyes. His hairy shoulders were shaking and even though he had his back to the window, Nickie could see he was crying like a little kid.
Something touched her arm. The fright of it nearly made her shout, but she couldn’t because a hand covered her mouth. She smelled calves and tasted sugar.
Gabrielle and Nickie slid down against the side of the house, underneath the window. They didn’t speak. Nickie wanted to be sick, but she was scared of making a noise. Instead, she tried to breathe in and out slowly. It was still raining hard and the back of her neck felt like ice.
Gabrielle tilted her head right back, so she was looking up at the window. She stayed like that, her eyes rolled upwards, for ages and it was starting to give Nickie the creeps until she realised what Gabrielle was doing. She pointed upwards and mouthed the word Wait and Nickie understood that she was checking whether the light inside was still on.
It felt like forever, crouched under there. Gabrielle watched, and Nickie breathed slowly and let the rain land straight on her face. She was glad for the rain because it disguised her tears.
Finally the light went out. Nickie started to move, but again, Gabrielle held her back by the arm. In the total darkness all Nickie could see were the white bits of Gabrielle’s eyes and shadows of the rest of her. Wait she mouthed again. She was making sure it was safe to move.
Gabrielle’s hand fell from Nickie’s arm and they crawled forward, like babies, towards then under the fence. They slid down into the drain, their feet finding their gumboots on the way. Slowly, without speaking, they felt their way along the grassy tunnel, back out to the side of the road.
At the intersection, they turned left and pushed on towards Nickie’s house. For a change, Nickie led the way. She shoved the grass and the weeds out of the way. Behind her was the steady sound of Gabrielle’s steps and her soft breathing.
The blackberries were getting thicker, harder to push through. Nickie peeked up above the deep drain and saw they were well clear of the Gilberts’ house. She crawled up the side of the drain and sat on the edge of it. Gabrielle followed.
‘What do we do?’ Her voice was tiny in the night.
‘Nothing. We go home and go to bed before it starts getting light.’
‘Okay.’
‘Don’t say a word to anyone.’
‘But—’
‘Nothing. Not to a single living person.’
There it was again, that flat, hard voice. She had cancer. It ate her brain up.
‘Alright.’ Nickie was exhausted. Every muscle in her body twitched. It felt as though all her energy was leaking out of her.
‘Are you okay getting to your place by yourself? I better go straight home, Dad’ll be up soon …’
Nickie wasn’t alright getting home by herself. She wasn’t alright for anything at all. But what Gabrielle said was true, pretty soon the sky would start changing colour and farmers would be starting the day.
‘See you at the shed tomorrow morning,’ Nickie whispered.
‘You mean today.’
‘Yeah. Today.’
Nickie took her gumboots off, tucked one under each arm, and ran in the grass along the edge of the road, as fast as she could. Gabrielle didn’t have to worry about her spilling the beans on what they’d seen. Nickie didn’t have the words to describe any of it.
2014
‘If you’d married,’ says Joy, ‘you could have kept the farm. If you’d found yourself a husband.’
Nicola sighs. ‘Please don’t start. Christ.’
‘I’m just saying.’
‘I never wanted the farm. Definitely didn’t want a farmer.’
‘You never worked out what you did want.’
That’s not true. Nicola knew exactly what she wanted — the husband of someone else. She ha
d him for a while — a long time ago — and then she didn’t and that was fine; he warned her that’s what would happen and it played out just that way.
And, even if none of that had come to pass, Nicola still wouldn’t have wanted a farmer.
‘Of course, your marriage was perfect, Mum.’
They’re in ugly territory now, but her mother started it. Nicola slumps, petulant and sorry, in the driver’s seat. She’ll pay for the bad posture later with aching bones, but the regret at baiting her dead mother — goading her, just as she did when Joy was still alive — will last longer.
The ghostly memory of Joy fades, defeated, beside her. Nicola reaches across, puts her hand on the leather of the passenger seat. It’s warm, but that’s because of the sunshine beating through the window.
This land’s pitted with varicose veins of peat. In the distance, there’s a blur of swampy tussock. These days, authorities are dedicated to its preservation. There are signs warning speeding city slickers like Nicola Walker against the careless flicking of cigarette butts.
Nicola watched her father and Hans Janssen taming this scrub — clearing the wildlife, gouging Passchendaele trenches through the dense soil to drain for new pasture. She remembers the macrocarpa stumps oozing up through the black muck, like monsters from the deep. Her father on the tractor, chains taut around the logs, and Hans straining to manoeuvre the emerging timber onto firmer ground. Pulling the stumps was the final act of conquest before machinery flattened the pasture, like dough under a rolling pin.
She wishes she still smoked; she would flick a burning light out the window right now, just to say I was here first. Before all the rules and awareness.
Here’s the thing about peat, her father used to say, blow me down, it catches fire! Not on the surface but deep down, in summer, in the spaces left by the macrocarpa stumps and the drained water, it bloody ignites somehow and next thing you’ve got an underground fire on your hands. And that’s when the fingerpointing begins because peat knows no Lands and Survey boundaries and so one farmer’s fire quickly becomes his neighbour’s to that side and the other.