The Audrey of the Outback Collection

by Christine Harris

  Audrey’s stomach rumbled. ‘It’s too hot to play pirates or flying doctors. And I’m hungry.’

  Stumpy agreed.

  ‘Let’s go home.’

  Most of the grasses were withering in the hot sun. But there was plenty of grey saltbush. Scraggy, with twiggy branches, the tallest of the bushes were only as high as Audrey’s waist.

  ‘Saltbush can last for a year without water,’ Audrey told Stumpy as they skirted the bushes. ‘Fair dinkum, a year is a long time. Almost forever.’

  A skink shot across the red sand, just missing her feet. Audrey jumped. She wasn’t scared of them, but they dashed out so quickly.

  She stopped walking and pointed. ‘Look, there was something moving.’

  Ahead of her, through the trees, she saw an emu with a line of striped chicks behind him as though they were playing follow-the-leader. The chicks seemed to appear and disappear between the saltbush. Audrey hoped the grown-up emu wouldn’t lose any of them.

  ‘The big one will be the dad. Emu dads look after the babies.’ Audrey felt sad. ‘I wish our dad would come home.’ His latest trip out bush had been a long one. She couldn’t remember exactly how long. But it seemed like forever. ‘Do you think a year and a long time and forever are the same?’

  Stumpy didn’t have a clue.

  Warm red sand slipped between Audrey’s sandals and the soles of her feet as she headed home. ‘Lucky tomorrow’s Saturday, Stumpy. I reckon I need a bath.’

  On days when the wind was strong, sand flew into the house and got into everything. Audrey understood why her mum wanted real glass windows instead of hessian. But Audrey was pretty sure the sand would still find a way into the house.

  As she neared the track that led home, a flock of cockatoos suddenly rose into the air, squawking and complaining.

  She squinted against the bright sunlight. ‘Someone’s coming.’ Audrey began to run. ‘Dad!’

  Twenty

  Red sand puffed around Audrey’s feet as she ran. The quandong stones swung wildly, bobbing against her face.

  ‘Try to keep up, Stumpy,’ she panted.

  She kept an eye on the ground because she didn’t want to put her foot down a rabbit hole or tread on a snake. The scrub thinned as it met the track. Someone was coming towards them on a camel. Audrey put one hand up to shield her eyes from the glare. A water mirage shimmered along the sand.

  ‘But Dad took both camels with him, and where’s Grease?’ said Audrey. ‘He and that old dog are always together. Just like you and me, Stumpy.’

  Then Audrey realised the shape of the rider was wrong for Dad. Either he had an enormous head or he was wearing a turban.

  Audrey slowed down, her chest tight with disappointment. Her feet felt strangely heavy. She had hoped so hard that it was Dad. Her face flamed with heat.

  But any visitor was better than none. Especially this visitor. He brought letters and news.

  The man on the camel wore a white turban and a long-sleeved shirt over loose trousers. His skin was brown and he had a long, hooked nose. He held a book in his hands, which he was reading as he rode.

  ‘Mr Akbar!’ Audrey waved at him.

  Mr Akbar looked up from his book and raised a hand in greeting. As he drew closer he smiled down at Audrey.

  ‘Salaam aleikum,’ said Audrey. She wished him ‘peace’, just as he’d taught her on earlier visits. In Mr Akbar’s country that was how they said ‘hello’.

  Mr Akbar’s smile broadened as he wished Audrey peace in return.

  ‘Where are your other camels?’ asked Audrey.

  Mr Akbar owned seven camels. Although he didn’t bring them all, he often had a string of two or three with him.

  ‘Ah … trucks.’ He sniffed and tucked his book into a saddle bag.

  Skipping alongside Mr Akbar on his camel, Audrey wondered if a truck had run over his other camels. She’d seen a truck once, but it wasn’t big enough to squash six camels at the same time.

  ‘I released my other camels into the bush,’ said Mr Akbar. ‘They are no longer needed. Perhaps, this is my last visit. A truck will bring your mail from now on.’

  Audrey wasn’t sure whether to say she would miss Mr Akbar or that it would be exciting to see the truck. So she said nothing. Privately she thought she would never give Stumpy away. Not even in exchange for a truck.

  ‘Peanuts!’ Mr Akbar exclaimed.

  Audrey tried not to laugh, but ended up snorting. When Mr Akbar was annoyed, he said ‘peanuts’ as though it was a swearword. He had better words than that. But Mum had warned Audrey not to remember them. When Mr Akbar got really fired up, he rolled his eyes and spittle shot from his mouth. He didn’t spit on purpose. He just forgot to swallow.

  The ropes binding Mr Akbar’s belongings creaked and the water in his canteen swished as his camel swayed along the path. Its feet drummed on the sand.

  Audrey couldn’t wait any longer. She crossed her fingers for luck and asked, ‘Have you got a letter for me?’

  Twenty-one

  Audrey, Mr Akbar, Price and Mrs Barlow sat outside the kitchen door on kerosene tins. Douglas waddled back and forth to the chookyard. His hands were tucked under his armpits, which made his elbows stand out like wings. Today he was a chook.

  Flies clung to the back of the house where it was shady. They always found the coolest wall.

  Price’s smile stretched from his left ear to his right as he jingled Mr Akbar’s coins in the pocket of his shorts. Price had worked hard, snaring rabbits and stretching the skins. And Mr Akbar had paid a fair price.

  Audrey wondered if Price was rich now, then decided he probably wasn’t. Rich people didn’t live in houses with mud floors and no glass in the windows.

  Mr Akbar had brought letters. Audrey’s was tucked under her pillow. She longed to rip open the neat envelope and read the words that had been written just for her. But it was good manners to give Mr Akbar something to eat first, and chat with him. He had travelled a long way since they’d last seen him—which had also meant months without letters.

  ‘Another scone, Mr Akbar?’ Mrs Barlow offered him the plate.

  He had picked the right day to call. Maybe he had a good nose for the aroma of scones.

  Mr Akbar shook his head. ‘No, no, no. As God is my witness, I am full to bursting.’

  Smiling, Mrs Barlow insisted.

  They all knew that Mr Akbar always said no at least twice, and then dived in. Audrey counted to ten before he finally agreed.

  ‘It would be impolite of me not to eat more. You have gone to much trouble, Mrs B.’

  Audrey’s dad had called Mum ‘Mrs B’ for so long, that other people did too. Her real name was Everhilda, but that was a mouthful. Audrey stuck to ‘Mum’.

  Mr Akbar took one scone, then a second. And a third. ‘To save you having to offer me the plate yet again,’ he said.

  ‘And how have you been, Mr Akbar?’ Mrs Barlow sipped her tea while she waited for him to empty his mouth.

  It took a while. He didn’t seem to understand that scones were supposed to be eaten a bite at a time. With him, it was all or nothing.

  ‘I am well, thanks God.’ He nodded. ‘Although, only some little time ago I almost died.’

  Price and Audrey exchanged a look. If everything Mr Akbar said was true, then he’d had more adventures than you could shake a stick at. More than all the other men in Australia put together.

  ‘I made camp two days south,’ he said, ‘and woke in the night to a tickle on my face.’

  He paused, waiting for them all to think about the horrors that lurked in the dark.

  Audrey shivered, remembering the night she slept outside. Even Stumpy had been nervous.

  Mr Akbar burped loudly. A morsel of scone flew from his mouth. Burping was a sign of enjoying food in the country where Mr Akbar grew up. Audrey imagined a large family, all burping at the same time. Instead of playing cards at night, they could have burp competitions.

  ‘I kept my body still, bu
t carefully reached out to strike a match,’ continued Mr Akbar. ‘Then I saw what was tickling.’

  Price sneaked a hand out towards the scone plate. He had eaten nearly as many as Mr Akbar. Audrey had lost count of the exact number, but it was a lot. She took another one herself, before they were all gone.

  Douglas ran back from the chookyard to weave in and out between them.

  Mr Akbar’s eyes popped wide open. ‘It was a death adder.’

  ‘Def!’ repeated Douglas.

  ‘If I had moved,’ explained Mr Akbar, ‘I would be in heaven before my time.’

  ‘But with a sore face,’ said Audrey. ‘Even if you wanted to go to heaven, it wouldn’t be worth getting bitten on the face by an adder.’

  Mr Akbar leaned forward and stared fiercely at each of them in turn. ‘Death adders are devious.’

  ‘What’s deevis?’ asked Audrey.

  ‘Adders trick,’ he said. ‘They disguise their bodies in grasses and cross their tails in front of the mouth. If a small animal comes close, the adder wriggles its tail. The animal grabs at the tail. Suddenly the adder strikes with his fangs.’

  Douglas squealed.

  Audrey winced. ‘Our dog, Lightning, got bitten by a snake and he died.’

  ‘Peanuts,’ said Mr Akbar.

  Mrs Barlow handed her cup of tea to Audrey and lifted Douglas onto her lap. He stuck his thumb in his mouth.

  ‘Snakes are deevis, all right,’ said Audrey. ‘Mr Akbar, do you reckon dogs go to heaven? How come we don’t see their legs hanging down?’

  Twenty-two

  ‘Mr Akbar, have you found a wife yet?’ asked Mrs Barlow.

  For as long as Audrey could remember, Mr Akbar had talked of his search for a wife. One time there actually was a woman that he liked, but on his next visit he had called her a ‘peanut’. So Audrey guessed it hadn’t worked out too well.

  ‘I am an intelligent man, clean, with a quick brain, yet I cannot find a wife.’

  ‘Maybe wives don’t like the smell of camels,’ said Audrey. She wanted to mention the spitting, too, but a warning glance from her mum suggested it was better not to say more.

  Mr Akbar flicked scone crumbs from his long, thin beard. ‘Where is your husband, Mrs B?’

  Mrs Barlow let Douglas wriggle off her lap. ‘Somewhere near Parachilna, I think.’

  Mr Akbar said nothing. He began stroking his beard the way people petted their dogs.

  The silence stretched.

  Mr Akbar’s face had gone very still, and so had his tongue.

  Audrey’s chest tightened. Was something wrong?

  ‘What is it, Mr Akbar?’ Although Mrs Barlow spoke gently, her face showed worry lines.

  They all stared, waiting for him to say what was on his mind.

  He looked towards the low hills on the horizon as though they held a secret that only he could see. Then he seemed to shake himself back to the present. ‘Oh, I am so humbly sorry that I forget. I have something for the young lady.’ He nodded to Audrey. ‘A gift.’

  Audrey suspected he was changing the subject on purpose. But even so, a flash of excitement shot through her. ‘You’ve got a present, for me?’

  Mr Akbar reached into a deep pocket in his baggy trousers and pulled out something wrapped in cloth. He rose and stepped towards Audrey. With both hands, he offered the gift.

  ‘I met a man on the road who asked me if I was travelling this way. I said, “Yes,” so he said, “There is a young lady with eyes green like winter grass, you must give this to her, to remember me by.”’

  Audrey unwrapped the cloth. Inside was a sheep jawbone. It had a row of teeth, with one missing, right in the middle.

  She grinned. ‘You met Toothless.’

  ‘Yes, I remember his name had something to do with faces. This man, he makes tea that tastes like tar.’

  ‘That’s him, all right.’

  Audrey leaned forward to show her older brother the jawbone. ‘See, Price? I told you the swaggie had skulls and jaws in his bag.’

  ‘Mr Akbar.’ Mum’s voice cut sharply through their chatter. ‘Tell me about my husband.’

  ‘I have not seen your husband.’ He waved a hand towards the sky. ‘It is only … I heard news of a fire near Parachilna. My friend, Jamal, had to run for his life. There was not much time to let his camels go loose. It was a big fire. Much smoke and flames.’

  The colour drained from Mum’s face, leaving it whiter than flour. ‘I am sorry to hear about the fire, Mr Akbar. But I am sure my husband will be fine. He’s a strong and clever man. He’s lived in the bush all his life. And, by now, he should be well on his way home. I expect him any day.’

  Mr Akbar nodded. ‘Of course. Your husband will be safe.’

  But the look in his eyes told Audrey that Mr Akbar was not sure about his own words.

  ‘That man flew from London on a moth.’

  Twenty-three

  The kerosene lantern spluttered. Shadow shapes leapt up the lounge-room walls as the flame flickered. Price turned the tiny wheel on the lantern to lengthen the wick, and the flame became strong and steady. He placed the lantern on the small wooden table beside his mother.

  In the next room, Douglas muttered in his sleep.

  Audrey flung herself down on the kangaroo-skin rug by the empty fireplace. She was excited about sharing the letters with Price and her mother. But not as much as usual. She couldn’t stop thinking about the bushfire. Her mum hadn’t said any more about it. But since they waved goodbye to Mr Akbar, she’d been jumpy and pale.

  Besides that, there was a story in Jimmy’s letter that bothered Audrey. She turned the sheet of paper in her hands. There was a second page still in the envelope that she wasn’t going to share.

  ‘Who’s first?’ Mum rested her foot on an empty wooden crate. She sat on a small armchair with a straight back. It was covered with a blanket knitted in coloured squares. ‘Price?’

  Jimmy had written a letter for each of them. Dougie had a drawing of a magpie and a feather. He had fallen asleep with the feather clutched in his hand.

  Price sat back in Dad’s battered armchair. The upholstery was faded and worn thin in places. But Dad always reckoned it was the most comfortable chair he’d ever sat in. A second lamp sat on the mantelpiece above Price’s head.

  He unfolded his letter. ‘Jimmy says the railway line between Alice Springs and Adelaide is finished.’

  Mum draped Audrey’s blue smock-dress across her lap and opened the tin where she kept her mending cotton and needles. ‘Another reason, perhaps, that fewer camels are needed. That, and the trucks.’

  Price tilted the letter so the lantern shone more brightly on the page. ‘They have a thing in Adelaide called air-conditioning. It’s a machine that blows cold air.’

  ‘Don’t the houses have windows?’

  Price ignored Audrey and kept reading, ‘Don Bradman got 452 runs, not out, in a cricket match in Sydney. That’s the highest score anyone has ever made, in the whole world.’ He refolded his letter. ‘What about your letter, Mum?’

  ‘There’s a nice song that’s popular at the moment called Tip-toe thru’ the tulips. There was an orchestral concert on the radio. And Jimmy’s dad is doing well in his new job.’ Mrs Barlow rubbed her leg. It ached more at night. ‘Anything interesting in your letter, Audrey?’

  Audrey took a small white shell out of her envelope and held it out. ‘It’s from the beach and it smells like salt. Price, you want to smell it too?’

  Price pressed his lips together. He did that when he was trying to look like a grown-up man. But Audrey thought he looked more like a boy with wind.

  Mum held up a needle, squinting as she fed blue cotton through its eye.

  ‘This is the best bit,’ said Audrey. ‘A man in Yass had an operation on his foot because he got a horrible weeping sore …’

  ‘No need to describe it,’ said her mother. ‘Just tell us what happened.’

  ‘The doctor found a bullet that had been stuck in hi
s foot for thirteen years. That bullet is older than you, Price.’ Audrey looked down at Jimmy’s letter again. ‘A man called Francis … C … Ch.’ She held out the first page of the letter for her mother to read.

  ‘Chichester,’ said Mum.

  ‘That man flew from London on a moth.’

  ‘I think Gipsy Moth might be the name of the man’s plane.’

  ‘Oh. A real moth would be better.’ Audrey refolded her letter and said nothing about the second, hidden, page. She didn’t want anyone else to see it.

  Twenty-four

  Price flung down the shovel and wiped one hand across his forehead. ‘Your turn, Audrey.’

  Audrey looked down at the shallow dent in the sand that was supposed to become their new dunny hole.

  Price had grunted a lot and the shovel had scraped on the hard-baked sand. But the size of the hole was disappointing.

  ‘We’re not going to finish this till Christmas.’ Audrey twanged the straps of the braces which held up her loose trousers and spat on her hands, then bent to pick up the shovel. She wasn’t sure why you had to spit on your hands. But Dad always did it before picking up the axe to chop wood.

  Usually, Audrey liked spitting. It was fun aiming at targets. She and Stumpy sometimes had spitting competitions out in the scrub. Stumpy usually won because he had a longer neck. But spitting on her hands wasn’t so much fun. Her spittle was warm and slimy.

  She rested one foot on the shovel blade and leaned her weight on it. It didn’t go down far.

  Price flumped onto the red sand and wrapped his arms around his knees.

  From inside the house came the sound of a magpie. Its name was Douglas.

  ‘I’ve got a question,’ said Audrey.

  ‘I know.’

  Audrey stopped digging. ‘How do you know? I haven’t asked it yet.’

  ‘You’ve always got a question.’ Price opened the water canteen and took a deep swig. A trickle ran down his chin.

  ‘Do you think Dad’s all right?’ She hadn’t been able to ask Mum because the look on her face was like a shut door.

  ‘’Course I do,’ said Price. But his voice was too cheerful, too loud. ‘He can look after himself.’