So you’ve finished with your tests? said a voice beside her. She was a big woman: red-faced, sweating—Beth had noticed her earlier in the yard. Yes, said Beth. They put mine through a shredder, said the woman. Do you feel freer? Yes, said Beth, I do. Me too, said the woman. She was a bit older, and a good deal fatter. The people opposite were starting to board. The main thing, said the woman—I’m not sure if it’s the same with you—is that I just can’t afford it any more. I mean, they give you these bits of paper so you can go and get your rebates—she pulled a wad from her bag and started waving them about—but with all the tests you have to do, rushing here and there, who ever has time to claim them? I had some too, said Beth. Exactly, said the woman. Now, I don’t know what your situation was before they told you you were unwell, she went on, I mean whether you had a job and all that—you look like someone who had a job—but no such luck for me. I’m on social-security payments because of my diabetes and then last year my husband falls over and dies. Literally. I’m sure you’ve still got a husband, so it’s different for you, but that really throws you sideways: no-one bounces back quickly from an incident like that. She took out a handkerchief and wiped her brow. So, she said, as well as the diabetes I got depression and couldn’t work. And then on this particularly shitty day my doctor says: I think I might send you off for some tests. Of course, I said: health first—without health, what have you got? (I would have said that to Jim a hundred times and what does he do with my advice?) So I did as my doctor said, continued the woman, and went off and had my tests. But no-one told me about the co-payments, did they? She waved her documents again. A grand and a half’s worth of co-payments already and god help me if I’d got on that train—she was pointing at the single carriage opposite, its doors now closing—then you might as well double or triple it. And what do I have in the bank? Two hundred and thirty-nine dollars and twenty-five miserly cents. That’s what. And fourteen-dollars-sixty in my purse. She showed Beth the contents of her purse, clawing it open with her thumbs, then she pushed it and the unclaimed rebates back down hard into her bag. They stood, watching, as the brakes on the southbound train released, the horn sounded, and it pulled away. Anyway, said the woman, that’s all behind me now, I’m off that crazy wheel—and, pulling her enormous suitcase behind, she moved off down the platform.
The morning cloud had cleared, the sun was out. Beth could hear a radio playing in the stationmaster’s office, somewhere a motor whined; further off, in the distance, was the manic screech of cockatoos. The fat woman started buttonholing an elderly man further down the platform—Beth watched as he side-stepped away from her and she kept hoicking the suitcase after. Beyond them, past the fence, the tracks narrowed to a vanishing point in a soupy shimmer of air.
They waited. Beth tipped her suitcase over for a seat, opened her tote and put everything out on the ground: purse, makeup bag, keys, sunglasses, mandarin, walking shoes, dead phone, rebate cash, lunchbox, kids’ puzzle, lemon cordial, travellers’ tissues, tablets. She took off her heels—her toes were crimped, alien-looking—and changed into her walking shoes. She dropped the heels, the lunchbox, the phone and the mandarin in the bin. She took a swig of warm lemon cordial and dumped it too, then she shoved the things to keep back in the bag.
There was a steely zing in the tracks, hardly audible at first, then louder, accompanied by a distant clack-clack. Everyone on the platform stirred. The female officer stepped out from the entrance, looked down the tracks and stood sentinel at the gate. The train was only a smudge on the southern horizon at first—almost, thought Beth, a mirage. Most of those waiting had now stepped up to the yellow line, craning their necks to see. Yes, it was theirs: a single carriage, going north. The two officers on the other platform had also come out of the stationmaster’s office to see; they each held a can of soft drink and had undone their ties. The train hooted and began to slow—Beth could see the driver in front. Yes, she thought, this is it. For those who want no longer to pay the mechanic, who have shunned the usefulness of tests. The brakes squeaked, the train sighed. The female officer stood stiff at the gate. One of those waiting stepped forward and—bravely, thought Beth—tried the button on one of the doors. It opened. Someone at Beth’s end did the same. The female officer watched with her hands behind her back as the rest of the passengers without envelopes boarded and the doors hissed and closed.
There was plenty of room to spread out inside and this the seven passengers did. They all had a row to themselves. The officer signalled; the driver tooted his horn. Beth sat near the back on the sunny side, well away from the fat woman and from where she had a good view of those riding with her. Again, as with the buses, it was a disparate lot. There were some occasional glances between them, but most seemed in their own worlds. No wonder, thought Beth. As the train pulled away she looked back across to the platform opposite and saw an officer putting a lighter to the envelope of the girl with the backpack and dropping it in the bin. Beth watched the smoke drift down the platform until it was lost from view.
The train squeaked, rattled, then got into stride. They left the scattered houses of Clarkefield behind and sped on through open country: a farm here, a shed there, the occasional car on the adjacent road moving past. Beth looked around the carriage. Yes, she thought, whatever comes next, I will go through it with these people: we are family now, for better or for worse.
But she was wrong. The train had not gone ten minutes down the line when it started to slow, then stopped; on the platform two elderly women were waiting, volunteers dressed as if for a craft group. They opened a door and called out two names. Two passengers stood, and Beth watched as the two volunteers ushered them out the gate to their car. At the next stop only the fat woman was called; again the volunteers were women but this time more formally dressed. At Malmsbury it was a man and a woman with a white Pajero: they took two, including the girl with the backpack. The train then travelled for a while without stopping; there was only Beth and one other woman left. Have I misunderstood? she thought. All this time, moving through the system, learning its peculiar ways, and I still don’t know how it works? At Ravenswood two volunteers called a name that wasn’t hers and led the woman to a small grey sedan.
But how can I be the only one left? she thought. And if I am, where am I going? Away from my tests, that much is clear—but weren’t all the others moving away from theirs too? She looked out the window—they went through a town without stopping. Maybe I should go to the front, she thought, knock on the door and ask the driver? There is still a driver, surely? They sped on, the posts and fences a blur: a single-carriage express catapulting through the fields. The sun was on the window, the light glanced across Beth’s face. The landscape hardly changed; occasionally a train whooshed past, going the other way, and every now and then a railway siding appeared with a shed, a silo and a shunted goods train. Sometimes, too, out of the vast fields of wheat stubble and turned earth, a house appeared among a clump of trees with a straight road running to it.
For a while Beth felt the light glinting on her face and watched the pictures floating in the window through eyes with half-closed lids. Everything was sun and light and air. She let her lids close, shut them like a blind, and watched the afterglows dancing in the dark. My god, I’m tired, she thought. Is that what death is, in the end? To be overtaken by some terrible, unavoidable tiredness?
Yes, said a voice. It was a woman, three rows down. How had Beth not seen her before? I’m Kirsten, she said, and you’re right, a terrible tiredness is exactly what it is. I remember that day looking at my husband and not being able to keep focus and soon I’d gone from dozing to sleeping and next I was in the endless sleep. That’s how I remember it, anyway; but it might be different for others. It was different for me, said the young woman four rows down—I was wide awake and in my prime. Mine was like hers, said the man opposite, like Kirsten’s. Hello, I’m Mike. A big man, with a big belly over his belt. One morning I felt a bit lethargic, he said, and a fortnight later
I was gone. I had no idea what happened, said the teenage boy holding the rail near the door: not then, not now. Kirsten leaned forward. He threw himself under the train, she whispered; his name is Hudson, he’s a local, he’s been with us ever since.
Excuse me, said Beth, looking around, but are you all—aside from Hudson, I mean—people who rode on past where the last passenger got off? Everyone except Hudson nodded—then another man, an older man, a few rows down past Mike, stood up. The main thing, he said, is to do it right. Doesn’t matter whether it’s tiredness or what, you just have to make yourself ready, that’s all. But how? said the young woman on the other side. He’s right, said Kirsten: a timely goodbye, an updated will, all your affairs in order, nothing can ever really prepare you. But you’ve got to try, said the elderly man. Trying doesn’t come into it, said the young woman. The worst, said Mike, is to think it’s not happening and then to be taken by the throat and throttled. They were all talking over Beth’s head now; there were others further down the carriage too. She leaned her cheek against the window and looked out.
GLENDA
The train slowed. It was imperceptible at first; Beth felt the suitcase between her knees roll slightly forward. The sounds had changed too: the engine straining, the whooshing sound gone, a slower clack-clack on the tracks. She looked around; the people were no longer there. Out the window were wheat silos, a tin shed and a road running straight to the horizon. The train tooted, and went through a crossing. How long had she been travelling? Two hours? Three? She saw another shed, another road, a tree close to the tracks. The brakes squeaked, the carriage crawled. A very long shed appeared, its roller door locked, two rusty tracks going in, then after that a long mound of dirt with its top levelled flat and a single streetlight in the middle. She could see a house, a couple of trees and an old truck parked on the verge. The carriage groaned, squeaked, stopped. A dog barked, there was a twitching and creaking, then everything went silent.
It was warm inside the carriage, with the afternoon sun on the window and no more breeze coming through the cracks. She could smell metal and diesel fumes and, faintly, her own sweat. Hello? she said, in the direction of the driver’s door. Hello? Is anyone there? Suddenly—it made her jump—the closest door opened and a woman with a blue armband looked in: tall, tanned, with country clothes and a country air. Beth Own? My name is Glenda. She stepped inside: her boots shone, her white cotton shirt was neatly pressed. I do apologise, she said, but something’s just come up and I’ll need to hurry you along. She was at Beth’s seat now, her hand on the suitcase. She pulled up the handle, led Beth to the door and swung the suitcase over the gap.
The problem, she was saying, as she walked Beth across the tracks and down the opposite siding, is that Stan’s away in Swan Hill, you see, and—would you believe it?—a calf’s gone and got itself stuck breech. I’ve called the vet but he’s in Kerang, so I have to get back and do it myself. My daughter Shelley’s with her now. But here, come over here—she was pointing to the big tree that Beth had seen earlier. I’ll sort you out, then let them know you’re here. She had a big stride, and Beth had trouble keeping up. They stopped under the tree and Glenda laid the suitcase on its side. I’m sorry, she said. She had a warm, friendly smile. Will you be okay to walk? Beth didn’t know what to say. It’s not far, said Glenda, past Meg Mackenzie’s about a hundred metres down. I should be okay, said Beth. Glenda smiled. But let’s help you off-load some of this stuff.
Beth was confused. Hadn’t everything back at Panchal’s become clear? No-one has given me instructions for this. She stood very straight with her bag over her shoulder, her arms by her side, and looked past Glenda to the road, the fences, the fields. Oh god, she thought, where am I now? Where am I going next? Glenda, oblivious—she had a job to do—was explaining how at this stage most clients preferred to get rid of the things they didn’t need. It makes the going easier, she said. She was crouched down in front of the suitcase and had already undone the zip. I don’t want to rush you, she said, but it’s often best to do this now because the longer it goes the harder it gets. It will all go to charity, if that’s any consolation. Our charity, I mean. Nothing’s wasted. She smiled up at Beth. I take it to the op shop, the ladies sell it and the money comes back to us. She touched her blue armband, so as to make things clear. It’s better now that we travel light, she said, and try not to cling on to things—goodness, you do have a lot. Let me get you a bag, she said, and she walked back towards the siding. Beth looked down. It’s true, I do have a lot, she thought. She sat on her haunches in front of the suitcase as Glenda had done and began to pick her way through it. A car door slammed and Glenda came back with a blue plastic bag with a red tie at the top. Here, she said. She crouched beside her and started shoving the things Beth handed her into the bag.
This is the last stop on the line, isn’t it? said Beth. Yes, it is, said Glenda. Wait, said Beth. Socks and undies, a couple of bras, spare comfortable pants and a couple of tops. Minimum toiletries. She picked these out, put them into the blue bag to keep and squashed the leftover things into the suitcase. I don’t need any of that, she said—you can take the case too. Glenda did up the zip.
A tear fell into the dirt. Then another. Oh, said Glenda. Beth let them come. Glenda put a soft hand between her shoulders but this only made things worse. Beth’s body now heaved; tears and snot fell and she made no attempt to stop them. David, Lettie, Gem, she kept saying. It all poured out of her. There, there, said Glenda. I’m sorry, said Beth. And me wandering off like some tramp! There, there, said Glenda, again. Beth cupped her hands over her nose and cheeks. A phone rang in Glenda’s pocket. It rang and rang again. Beth peeled her hands back. I’m sorry, said Glenda, that’s Shelley.
She took out the phone and moved back down the dirt road beside the railway line with the phone to her ear, waving her free hand around. She was giving her daughter instructions about the cow. Beth remained on her haunches, a strange-looking animal: her hair all messed, her face red and wet. She wiped a hand across it. Glenda was still talking. Oh dear, thought Beth—and she let out a little laugh. She shook herself, stood up, fixed her hair, adjusted the tote bag on one shoulder and threw the hospital bag over the other. She lifted her chin. Glenda was now striding back towards her, waving her arms. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, she was saying, the poor thing’s near dead. I’m ready, said Beth.
On the back of an old shopping list Glenda drew a hurried map. There, she said, then there. Beth took it from her. Glenda put the discarded suitcase in the boot. You have no idea, she said, waving her arms again: any other day, any other day. Good luck, said Beth. Thank you, said Glenda. I’ve told Meg you’re coming; she’ll keep an eye out. She shook Beth’s hand, got back in the car and drove away. The dog barked again in the distance. Beth put away the map. Left, straight, then right, it said—even a child could understand.
NOT THE END
They really leave you on your own, don’t they? thought Beth. Is it meant to be character-building? I know I’m not a cripple, wracked with pain—but still. That mighty network of volunteers, and now here I am on a dusty road, alone. She crossed another road that in turn crossed the tracks and cut an arrow-straight line through the fields. To her left it went straight too, but this way the road sloped slightly downward and halfway along Beth could see some houses and trees. Past there—a hundred metres, said Glenda—was where the road dog-legged right to town. Town? Some houses maybe, a shop or two, a community hall, a pub. The barking had stopped. Her shoes crunched loudly on the stones. In the paddock on the corner a grey horse trotted to the fence, nodded, then jumped back and galloped away. Its hooves rang clear in the air. The air had dry grass and dust in it. A plane with a white tail flew high overhead.
She walked. The first house she passed looked uninhabited, with knee-high weeds in the gravel drive. After that came an unmown empty block, another house with a kid’s slide rusting in the yard, then two more empty blocks. Maybe this was the town? She passed a cemetery with hig
gledy-piggledy gravestones, white angels on plinths, plastic flowers bleached to white and, again, the grass unmown. Then she heard the dog bark again.
In the front yard of a weatherboard house two doors down on the other side a black dog was jumping at a low wire-mesh fence, setting its paws up on the rail. On a star picket in the middle of the yard was a hand-painted sign—Hairdresser—with a mobile number beneath and next to that a crudely drawn pair of black scissors. Shut up, Keeba! said a voice from inside the house. A woman opened the flywire door. Ah, she said. She pointed down the road. Keep going, keep going, you’re right, don’t worry, keep going, you’ll hear it. She waved in the general direction of down-the-road. Are you Meg? asked Beth. The woman nodded. For chrissakes, Keeba! The dog fell silent. Just head on down, said Meg, I’ll most likely see you later. She whistled Keeba inside. Straight on, then right, said Meg. Good luck. She closed the door.
There were a couple more houses with bare front yards—at most a rose bush or a bed of plastic-looking succulents—but there was still no town that Beth could see. She heard music, or thought she did, but no sooner had than the sound was lost again in the air. She stopped: it was quiet without the footsteps and the dog. Somewhere far off a tractor revved and from somewhere else, yes, there was music, singing, chorus-verse-chorus rising up on the air like a wave. Not the end, they were singing, not the end. Her spine stiffened; she felt a little sick in the stomach. So this was the place.
The singing grew louder. It was coming from down the road to her right. She gripped the hospital bag harder and walked faster in that direction. She reached the spot where the road dog-legged right and stopped again to listen. Yes, it was singing, definitely singing, and it was coming from down there: a small church or community hall, weatherboard, high-pitched roof, set back a little off the road. She walked towards it.
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