Barra Creek

by Di Morrissey

  ‘No, I won’t say anything. It’s very nice of you to do that, Daisy. Do you go to school?’

  She shook her head. ‘Me working horses an’ cattle. Learnin ’bout dem tings. Fitzi, Snowy, Monroe Boss show me.’

  They must be short handed, thought Sally. Then recalling the tales of Betsy’s wild child they probably figured this would keep her out of mischief. Sally nodded. ‘You do what you have to, goodbye, Daisy.’

  ‘Bye, missus.’

  Plans changed when John Monroe took Sally aside. ‘I’m not going out with you. Why don’t you drive? Ian has work here and I’ve got some things to check out. Fitzi will look out for you.’

  ‘As he always did,’ said Sally. ‘It’s only a night and two days, which will probably be long enough for the kids.’

  ‘We have to get them riding, Sal. They can’t come up for holidays here if they can’t ride.’

  ‘I’m working on it.’ Neither mentioned it but Sally assumed John was thinking the same as she was – too bad Rob wasn’t here. He’d have them calmly and confidently riding in no time.

  In one respect Sally was glad John wasn’t going to be with them, he’d dominate the little group, and she was looking forward to sharing this special experience with her children and Fitzi. He’d promised to tell them some legends after supper round the campfire. Jeremy and Trisha had found Barra Creek exciting and unusual, but the novelty was wearing off. They too felt the tension in the house and it made them uncomfortable. They’d talked about it in whispers at bedtime, but Sally had merely told them how sad Mr and Mrs Monroe were because they had lost Marty and Jilly. She spared them the details of Marty’s death.

  She knew that she wouldn’t bring her children back here. They found it strange to think of their mother as a governess or going out mustering on horseback. There was nothing at Barra Creek that bore any connection with their life with their father in Point Piper or their mother’s comfortable, elegantly rustic spread on the south coast.

  Lorna made sure they packed food the children would like in addition to flour for the damper and beef stew, and she and John waved them off. Sally drove the new Toyota and Fitzi rode behind her. Snowy and the boys had gone ahead.

  ‘Go get ’em, cowboys!’ John called out.

  The children waved and Sally glanced fondly at him in the rear-vision mirror. Despite all his crassness and bluster, snapping at Ian and his dismissiveness towards Lorna, she felt sorry for John Monroe, and she liked him.

  ‘Where are we going, Mum? There’s no road.’ Trisha peered at the dusty track ahead of them.

  ‘We’re going to catch some cattle where the wild horses live. If you’re lucky, you might see some brumbies or the magical spirits who dance around the campfire at night.’

  For a brief moment she saw in her mind the dreadful scene of Marty’s death. She’d keep these two precious people close to her and she knew Fitzi was there to watch out for them too. Sally loved Barra Creek but she couldn’t help feeling it had been cursed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  JOHN MONROE CLOSED HIS diary and flung it back on the shelf in the small area that served as his library and office. He then went out on the verandah, lit a cigarette and stared across the garden. How different it looked from when he and Lorna had moved here. She’d done a wonderful job trying to make this Godforsaken place look like a suburban garden. If he was honest with himself, he’d never thought she’d stick it out. Christ, they had had their ups and downs, and more than their fair share of bloody tragedy. What had he done to get kicked in the guts so often, he wondered. And now, when he should be sitting back enjoying life, taking it a bit easy, he had this constant friction with Ian. It had been building for years, he could see that now. He could understand some of the reasons why Ian blamed him for what had gone wrong in their lives. Maybe that was why he’d taken his hand off the wheel, looked away, and Ian had got the better of him. He was facing a situation of either giving up running the property and letting Ian do things his way, or having an all-out blue and taking control again.

  He’d stepped back a little and let Ian try out some ideas, but they had only cost them money. Prices were not what they used to be, costs were high and labour was expensive. Tommy was no help, he’d pissed off to England and would never come back. The future of Barra Creek had to stay with Ian whether Monroe liked it or not. The problem was in standing back; it was infuriating to see how cocky Ian was. He was going to come a cropper for sure, but it would be hard to stand aside and watch him ruin years of hard work. Maybe he and Lorna should take off and leave Ian to it, but he was buggered if he’d do that, this place was his life. Lorna would probably like to travel, go and see Tommy. He hated hotels and travelling to strange places. Aw, shit. It was all too damned hard.

  He stubbed out his cigarette against the post and flipped the butt into the bushes.

  ‘Lorna! You there?’ he bellowed, stepping inside.

  ‘Please, John. I don’t feel well.’ Lorna’s reply was feeble and she sounded cross. ‘What is it?’

  He glanced into the room where Lorna was lying on her bed under the mosquito net, a damp cloth on her forehead. ‘What’s up now?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. What do you want?’ Her eyes were closed and he could tell she didn’t want to talk.

  ‘Nothing. I’ve got some things to see to before Sally gets back. I’m taking the old ute, I’ll be back in a day, I guess.’

  ‘Please be here when they get back,’ she sighed. While she loved having Sally and the children visit, it was draining her energy. John had promised them a big barbecue when they came in from the stock camp. It would be a relief if he went out checking, bores, horses, cattle, or whatever. A day or so on her own was just what she needed. She pressed the cool towel closer.

  Monroe put his .303 rifle on the dash of the ute, threw his gear in the back and drove away without anyone paying any attention. He’d kept quiet, not wanting to scare Sally and her kids, but there’d been reports of another huge croc up river, a real big bastard. It had grabbed a calf and there’d been talk of it getting a dog. Snowy had set a snare for it and John had checked it a few times with no luck. The big old croc had outsmarted them so far.

  Snowy had placed a chunk of wild pig across the steep mud slide where the croc went up the bank from the river. Around the bait was a thin metal cable forming a noose. Strong rope cord with a five-hundred pound breaking strain ran from the noose, hanging loose above the snare, up a tree, over a branch and was weighted at the end by a heavy log as a counterbalance. It had proved to be an effective snare in the past. A crocodile had to put its head through the loop to get to the bait and when it moved backwards it tripped the wire, which sprang and tightened around its head. It was stopped from going back into the river by the weight of the log that swung up to the branch.

  Monroe planned to check the snare on his way to the bore in the western paddock, but he knew it was simply an excuse to be on his own. Time to think about Ian and the increasing tension between them both. Several times recently they had almost come to blows. The language of dissent and conflicting opinions had given way on many occasions to language of abuse. Even hatred. John fought hard to keep his emotions under control, but he knew things could not go on like this much longer. Something, someone, had to give. They’d both been drinking more heavily than usual, despite the presence of the visitors. Poor Sally, he thought. I wonder what she’s making of all this. She must see what’s happening. Too polite to say anything, that’s Sal.

  He parked the ute by the tree line of the creek. He didn’t pick up the rifle, figuring that, like so many times before, there’d be no need for it. The dry grass crumpled under his feet as he walked quietly towards the snare. The tree was soon in sight and at once he could see that the log had been moved, and the rope cord was hanging slack. ‘Well, well,’ he muttered. ‘Whaddya know.’

  He walked cautiously up to the tree and peered around the trunk. Sure enough the croc, all fifteen feet of it, was lying
on the steep mud slide, its head caught in the steel noose. It had been fighting to break free, was covered in mud, and the whole area had been churned up from a long struggle. Even though the croc had eventually crawled towards the tree and lowered the imprisoning log, the noose held tight. The slack line was buried in mud. ‘You bloody beauty,’ hissed Monroe. ‘Gotcha! Not so fuckin’ smart after all.’

  The croc was still and Monroe, with a feeling of triumph dulling his better judgement, stepped from behind the tree and walked towards the croc, raising his hands and clapping them hard to startle the creature. It thrashed viciously and slid back towards the water. In the same instant Monroe fell backwards, slipping on the muddy bank.

  The crocodile’s panicked dash tightened the long line, whipping loops of it out of the mud. At the same time, Monroe was thrown off balance again and screamed in fear. His left leg caught in several loops of the rope line running between the croc and the log. The line tightened, cutting into his leg. The croc was half in the water, the log rose and jammed up against the high tree branch. Monroe blacked out in shock and pain.

  When he came around minutes later, the world seemed upside down. He was hanging in the air, dangling from the taut line, his head and shoulders in the mud. He slowly took stock and turned his head to look down the bank and found himself staring into the eyes of the half-submerged croc several yards away. It again shook its head and clawed the mud, but nothing happened. It was a bizarre tableau of man and beast. Each counterbalancing the other until one gave way.

  Monroe desperately tried to devise a way out of his predicament, but stayed very still. He figured if he didn’t move, the croc wouldn’t. Even if he could reach up to his trapped leg, there was little chance of being able to undo the tangled line. He wasn’t carrying a knife, either. If he did free himself he’d slide down the steep slope towards the croc. And if the croc decided to race up the bank towards him, then what? Sunset was hours away. That’s when the croc would be likely to make a move. They came up onto river banks at sunset. Maybe Snowy would come by. No, he wouldn’t be in from the stock camp for another day or so. Ian? He knew the snare was set but wasn’t sure where, and John hadn’t told anyone he was going to check out the scene.

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ he exclaimed softly. For the first time in a long while, John Monroe started to pray.

  Years afterwards Ian still wondered, when unbidden thoughts of that day came to him, what had led him along the path he followed to its swift, unplanned conclusion. Fate? Coincidence? The subconscious fulfilment of a long-held idea? Or was it the voices he sometimes heard in his head telling him what to do?

  He had set out on horseback late in the afternoon and seeing the tyre tracks heading towards the river, he followed on an impulse. Two hours later he knew where his father had gone – to check the croc snare. His horse walked slowly. To his left was the broad creek where barramundi lived and the saurians came to feed, make their nests and stake their territory. The tangle of river growth smothered by the Madagascan Rubber vine stopped where a bushfire had ripped through. An occasional melaleuca tree dotted the bank amidst all the grass. He stopped the horse, took a swig of rum from his water bottle and gazed as the last of the sunlight spread like butter on black bread.

  He’d had a fear of the river ever since the bore runners’ woman had been taken. He and his brothers had sneaked away from Sally and seen the bloody body lying on the grass. The times he’d been swimming he’d made sure the others were ahead of and behind him, and they all made lots of noise.

  He felt again the deep disquiet that he lived with – a feeling of frustration, of smothered anger, of loneliness and the fear that he’d always feel this way. When could he step from the shadow of his father, be his own man? He’d have to move, make a break. But he couldn’t bring himself to do that. He was afraid, even though Rob had said he could work with him any time he wanted a breather. Ian had always felt a very strong attachment to his home. Unlike Tommy he hated going away and he couldn’t wait to come back on school holidays. Once Sally had asked why he loved being here so much, and he couldn’t answer. He’d always felt this way, and in one respect he believed he owed it to little Marty to carry on. Marty should be here with him. His death should never have happened. So many things had gone wrong. He took another gulp of the rum, feeling it warm his gut, then he moved the horse forward. He wasn’t sure where the snare was set so he went on until he spotted the ute parked in open country. He tethered the horse to the bumper, glanced into the cabin, surprised to see his father’s rifle, picked it up and walked towards the river following the trodden grass that marked the path to the bank.

  In the fading light he thought it was an apparition, a grotesque illustration from some horror comic. He stopped, his breath catching as the full impact of what he saw hit him – his father caught in a trap, suspended and helpless half way down the bank. It was a bizarre, unexpected and frightening scene. He blinked then shut his eyes for a moment, but when he opened them nothing had changed. Ian was as still as the scene before him, but his mind was in turmoil.

  Was his father alive? He felt a rush of emotion and a surge of sudden elation that shocked him. The idea that his father was dead pleased him. He shuddered slightly, and cautiously stepped a little closer. He started to shake and was forced to stop. Looking around carefully, he saw for the first time the massive croc with its head in the steel noose, just clear of the rising tidal water. Man and beast both trapped and both still alive.

  His head cleared a little and one of the voices he heard so often whispered, ‘Save him. Shoot that bloody thing. A dead easy shot.’

  But another louder voice echoed from the distant past and stopped any hint of action. ‘Remember all those times, you know, those times when you wished he was dead.’ And with it came a flood of pictures, like flashes from horror movies – a flood of memories of hurts and threats. Images that had brought pain, anger and promises of retribution. The world around him became a blur.

  The man in the wire trap was no longer his father. It was just a figure, a shape, an empty shell as if blood, life and everything that made him live had been drained away like a butchered killer beast.

  The real world came back into focus. Ian saw the scene again so clearly and knew what would be inevitable unless he made a move. But he couldn’t. He opened his mouth, it was dry, his tongue thick, he couldn’t make a sound. He dropped his head and closed his eyes to again erase the scene, and then a feeling of great calm came over him. ‘It is so easy, so simple,’ whispered a voice within him.

  The solution to all his anguish. He didn’t have to do anything. ‘Do nothing,’ the voice in his head screamed. ‘Walk away. Turn and walk away. You did not cause this to happen. John Monroe, fate, God, had brought this to pass. Do not interfere.’

  After half a day here Monroe had little strength left. He felt dizzy and knew he would pass out again. He lifted his head, and saw, standing in the shadow of the trees, his eldest son.

  ‘Thank God you’re here! Shoot the bloody thing. Quick!’

  Ian didn’t answer. He couldn’t look at the figure of his father again. Deliberately he turned his back and slowly put one foot in front of the other, with each step walking towards a future free of John Monroe.

  In many nights to come, he would hear again the hoarse scream echoing over the silent river . . .

  ‘You baaastaaard!’

  He did not see the old beast lift its jaws, dig in its claws and make one last effort to drag its massive body up through the mud. With each patch of muddy ground gained, the slackening rope slowly lowered the weight of John Monroe’s head and shoulders towards where the dead pig meat had rested.

  Sally and the children were grateful Fitzi had been with them on the stock camp. Sally felt safe and Fitzi had entertained the two city kids by taking them out to find bush tucker, hunt a goanna, watch brolgas dance and learn about surviving in the seemingly empty terrain. Around the campfire he told them stories about the area and Snowy had surprised
Sally by recounting some exciting adventures that were, thankfully, relatively wholesome. The children enjoyed the novelty of eating their dinner off a tin plate from the camp oven, and rolling into their swags and looking at the night sky, watching for shooting stars to make a wish. Driving back, Trisha and Jeremy said they’d had a good time but wouldn’t want to do it for too long.

  ‘Snowy said they sometimes stay out at those camps for weeks and weeks,’ said Jeremy. ‘That’d be awful.’

  For a moment Sally thought back to her time out in the stock camp with the boys and Rob. How precious and romantic it had been with him. Maybe what she and Rob had shared was only meant to be for a short while in this unreal country of campfires, stars, horses, cattle and the vastness encircling them.

  ‘There was plenty to do, you were on the go from sunrise to sundown. Time for a bit of a yarn after dinner and then into your swag, you were so tired,’ she said.

  ‘You really liked it out here, didn’t you, Mum?’ said Jeremy softly.

  ‘I did. But I ended up in the city with your dad and made a different life from maybe what I’d planned. Never plan your life, kids, things have a habit of turning out quite differently.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to uni and staying in the city,’ Jeremy said.

  ‘But we’re glad we came. Thanks, Mum,’ said Trisha, ever the sensitive little girl.

  It was lunchtime and Lorna had the table set by the time the children had cleaned up and come in to eat. Sally was surprised that Lorna was the only one joining them.

  ‘Where is everyone?’

  ‘John has gone out to check on a bore or something. He went yesterday, he’ll be back in time to cook the barbecue he promised. Ian is with Snowy, Fitzi and the men outside, working out about moving some cattle. So that leaves us and I want to hear how you enjoyed yourselves.’

  In the afternoon, while Lorna had a rest and the children played in the goat cart, Sally went for a ride. She came back past the blacks’ camp, now one of more permanent-looking gundies and basic one-room houses, though it was a much smaller settlement than the sprawling community she had known. She slowed Dancer as she came across two old women, Lizzie and young Daisy walking back from the river carrying tubers of waterlilies, a coolamon with seed pods and a couple of fish.