Love in the Age of Drought

by Fiona Higgins

  ‘’Scuz’me.’ I jumped at the voice in my ear and looked around, dazed. ‘D’ya know how long it is till we get to Oakey?’ asked the teenage boy across the aisle.

  ‘Ah, no, sorry,’ I mumbled.

  The boy turned back to the window. His lurid magazine and brown paper bag were nowhere in sight; he’d obviously exhausted that entertainment option. I followed the boy’s gaze. A car had broken down just short of the turnoff to ‘Wacol’, the site of a notorious maximum-security prison.

  Free of the city proper, we were gaining speed and heading west along the Ipswich Motorway. Mount Oxley and Sinnamon Park streaked past – newer suburbs of sprawling Greater Brisbane, partitioned behind high wooden boards that separated them from the busy freeway. Behind these walls, hundreds of almost identical houses crowded tiny blocks of land in family-friendly cul-de-sacs. Billboards advertised the availability of three-bedroom homes on an acre plot for just $275,000; it was a world away from the Sydney housing market.

  Before long, we arrived in the satellite city of Ipswich, 44 kilometres west of Brisbane.

  ‘WelcometoIpswich, Queensland’soldestcity,’ intoned the bus driver as we made our way along the main street.

  I was struck by the magnificent heritage architecture of the buildings that lined the thoroughfare. This was not the Ipswich I’d envisaged during the rise and fall of its famous daughter – protectionist politician Pauline Hanson – in the late 1990s.

  ‘CentreoftheuniverseforV8motorcarracing,’ added the bus driver. Several elderly passengers alighted at a coach terminal; the doors snapped shut and we resumed our journey west.

  The road widened to four lanes out of Ipswich, presumably to accommodate the countless semi-trailers speeding past the coach. These oversized trucks carried all manner of equipment and machinery for mines, farms, earthworks and construction. Where I’m going, infrastructure is king. But I hardly know a tractor from a truck.

  The coach veered onto the Warrego Highway, a 750-kilometre stretch of road connecting the coast to the south-western Queensland towns and cities of Gatton, Toowoomba, Oakey, Dalby, Chinchilla, Miles, Roma, Mitchell, Morven and Charleville. As the sun pursued its trajectory towards the western horizon, I squinted into the glare.

  Speeding towards Gatton, I noticed billboards spruiking the virtues of home-grown products such as ‘Fourex Beer’ and ‘Big Dad’s Pies’. As we rolled into the Shire of Esk, an emu farm offered an incongruous spectacle at the highway’s edge. Mobs of sickly looking emus jostled for sparse tree shade beneath the relentless heat. A rusted sign near the hamlet of Marburg informed drivers that Darwin beckoned, a mere 3,414 kilometres up the road.

  Twenty minutes later, the Golden Arches greeted us at Gatton, population 6,000, situated in the Lockyer Valley. ‘SaladbowlofSouth-East Queensland,’ announced the bus driver. ‘Primeagriculturalcountry, mostlyvegies.’ I peered out the window at crops growing just metres from the highway. A good reason to always wash your leafy greens.

  As we left the Gatton precinct, careering towards Toowoomba, the ‘Sonshine Ranch’ gave me the first inkling of the strength of the Christian evangelical movement in the area. A sign at Browns Plains was more direct: ‘Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners. Read your Bible!’ Further along, a large signboard depicted an image of a Casper-the-friendly-ghost-like foetus floating in the ether, declaring ‘I’m innocent!’ Underneath, an anti-abortion directive rebuked: ‘No death penalties for babies. Protect life!’

  Having navigated a steep ascent of the Toowoomba Range, famed for its beauty and fatal car accidents, we entered the city proper. At a time of ongoing drought, Toowoomba was a rare regional centre in Australia, in that it was actually growing in population. It was renowned for its agricultural fecundity, its annual flower festival and its well-heeled residents. The coach rumbled along broad, 50-kilometre-per-hour streets, lined with well-kept houses and gardens that belied the water restrictions in place. As we rounded a corner I caught sight of a tall African family queuing to access an ATM, a bolt of exoticism amid the monocultural neatness.

  We broke free of Toowoomba’s suburbs and continued our journey westwards, beyond the Great Dividing Range. I gazed out at parched paddocks and herds of bony cattle congregating on treeless plains. About 50 kilometres west of Toowoomba we entered the Oakey precinct – a tiny outpost kept alive by an Army helicopter base. I peered up, but nothing graced the skies except a flock of galahs, pink wings ablaze in the late afternoon sun. The mousey sixteen year old alighted the bus at Oakey. He was greeted by a grandmotherly woman who, much to his chagrin, bombarded him with wet kisses in full view of the departing coach.

  Our progress after Oakey was hampered by roadworks, overseen by tattooed council workers in reflective fluorescent vests. While the coach idled at various roadside blockades, I noticed birds of all varieties, perched on telegraph poles, basking in the setting sun, or strewn as feathered road kill across the asphalt. My stomach churned at the sight of a sulphur-crested cockatoo – its yellow crest the only identifiable feature – obliterated on the highway.

  The sun was now low on the western horizon. In defence against its rays, the bus driver pulled a blind across the windscreen, partially obscuring his vision. I closed my eyes as a wave of anxiety washed over me. We’d been travelling for almost four hours: surely we were nearly there? ‘There’ being Dalby, an agricultural service centre located within a 30-minute drive of Jandowae. My new home.

  Dalby’s proximity was heralded by enormous grain silos adjacent to the highway. I’d done my research pre-departure: Dalby counted itself among Queensland’s oldest towns, springing up in the mid-1800s near the Condamine River. In its earliest years, it had been a camping stop for bullock teams transporting wool to Ipswich. Nowadays, ‘The Dog Bowl’ bowling alley announced the eastern outskirts of the town.

  The bus driver eased back on the accelerator. The coach rolled past three pubs, a police station, several 24-hour service stations, fast food outlets and the apparent locus of it all, the Dalby RSL. In the RSL’s car park a fishmonger had erected a makeshift advertisement on the roof of his four-wheel drive and locals were queuing to sample his catch. The tradition of fish on a Friday was alive and well in country Queensland, it seemed. The bus braked and slowed. Gripped by nerves, I popped a breath mint and hastily smoothed my hair.

  As we pulled in to a service station, I fought the urge to retch into my handbag. Would Stuart be glad to see me? After a six-month break, would he be different to how I remembered? What would I say to him? I climbed down the stairs, collected my bags and stood alone at the terminus. For a late summer’s evening, the wind had a distinct chill about it. Where is he? I scanned the passing vehicles, searching for Stuart’s face.

  Utility vehicles cruised the main street, bearing bullbars with bumper stickers such as ‘No fat chicks’, ‘I got rucked at the Meeandara B&S’ and ‘Every family needs a farmer’. Hottedup utes with giant aerials and spotlights (‘For pig shootin’, luv,’ a service station attendant explained) were outnumbered only by white four-wheel drives, ‘Baby on board’ signs stuck to their windows.

  Baby, I’m bored. I sat down on one of my suitcases and resigned myself to a long wait.

  Eventually, a banged-up ute pulled into the driveway, with Stuart behind the wheel. I struggled to control the ridiculous grin spreading across my face, before abandoning myself to it entirely.

  ‘Hello!’ I called out in excitement.

  The driver’s door swung open and Stuart emerged, wearing a pair of old football shorts and a threadbare green work shirt. He’d obviously departed direct from the field, without so much as washing the dirt from his face. He walked towards me, holding my gaze.

  ‘So, the Greyhound didn’t do you in?’ he asked, his face impassive.

  ‘Almost,’ I replied, itching to throw my arms around him. Stuart kept his distance, stopping a metre away from me.

  ‘Let me get these,’ he said, scooping up my bags like sacks of chaff, and t
hrowing them into the back of the ute. ‘Hop in,’ he commanded. I slid into the darkened cab and fastened my seatbelt.

  Not the warmest of reunions, I reflected, swallowing a hard lump of disappointment. But give him time.

  We pulled out of the service station and within three minutes had left Dalby proper, turning off the highway and tracking north-west. The silence was unnerving, but the uneven road was not conducive to small talk. As we negotiated the highway’s irregularities at a cracking speed of 110 kilometres per hour I braced myself, hands pressed against the ute’s roof. Some 25 kilometres from Dalby, we passed through the small hamlet of Jimbour, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it country siding. Sporting a school on the left and a verandah-cum-post office on the right, Jimbour’s only other fixture was a butcher, ominously offering ‘private kills’.

  The night closed in on us, flat plains stretching to the horizon on either side of the highway. Empty fields were interspersed with paddocks planted with what appeared to be tall red corn. I glanced at Stu, keen to ask what type of crop this might be, but decided against it. His eyes were focused squarely on the road ahead. I’d foolishly fantasised about an ardent reunion, all hands and lips and heart. I turned back to the window, but could see nothing beyond the sweep of our headlights.

  Out of the darkness a sign appeared, announcing the Cooranga Creek crossing. Not far beyond, we turned left onto the Warra–Marnhull Road. As we approached a sign advising us to ‘Watch Out for Trains’, Stuart inexplicably accelerated and I gripped the seat. Sensing my alarm, Stuart explained, ‘No trains on this line for ten years.’ Once over the railway line, the bitumen gave way to gravel. A sign granted permission for speeds of 100 kilometres an hour, yet Stuart slowed the ute. As we picked our way along a strip of grass-lined road, countless sets of animal eyes blinked beyond the bushes. ‘Don’t want to hit the roos,’ Stuart said.

  In the distance, a signpost marked a four-way intersection. ‘Farm starts here,’ he said, pointing to the left. I strained my eyes in the darkness to detect a fence line, but could see nothing. Minutes later, a large silver shed and white tank appeared, looming over a small, dilapidated bungalow. The shed was a work of engineering splendour, proudly demonstrating Stuart’s fourteen years on the farm. Meanwhile, the ramshackle house bore testimony to his bachelorhood over the same period. Paint peeled from its weatherboard walls, wooden stumps had sunk into the alluvial soil, and elaborate cobwebs partially obscured the cracks and crannies in its frame.

  We turned off the road and into the driveway. The ute’s engine sputtered into silence. I stepped out of the vehicle onto soft, yielding earth, and looked up. Unused to the absence of fluorescent street lighting, I gasped at the galaxy of stars overhead, brilliantly stark against the indigo blanket of surrounding night.

  Stuart walked around the front of the ute and silently reached for me. The quiet, broken only by the chirruping of a cicada, enveloped us. The crisp night air was tinged with the scent of damp cotton flowers. Stuart held my face in his hands and pressed his forehead against mine, as if to physically expunge the mental anguish of the previous six months. I closed my eyes, breathing in his familiar smell. The knot of nerves in my stomach eased. I lay my head against his chest and listened to the rhythmic thud of his heart.

  ‘Welcome to “Gebar”, your new home,’ he murmured.

  ‘Thank you,’ I whispered.

  Suddenly, Stuart scooped me up in his arms.

  ‘I’m carrying you over the threshold. Might as well do it right from the start,’ he declared. I giggled in protest as he staggered over uneven ground towards the front door.

  ‘There’s no use struggling, you’re on my turf now,’ he warned. The warmth in his voice spoke of a new start, of forgiveness. I wrapped my hands around his neck and leant into him, elated and relieved.

  CHAPTER 7

  I awoke early on Saturday morning, light filtering through horizontal blinds strung unevenly across the bedroom window.

  ‘Hello, sleeping beauty,’ said Stuart, leaning up onto his elbow, ‘I thought you’d never wake up.’ I blinked and smiled with rapid realisation.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m here,’ I said.

  ‘Neither can I,’ said Stu. ‘Thanks for coming.’ I nuzzled my head into his neck.

  ‘Thanks for having me back,’ I replied.

  We lay in comfortable silence, Stuart caressing the curve of my back. Suddenly, Stuart’s phone beeped receipt of an SMS message.

  ‘That’ll be Roger, my offsider,’ said Stuart. ‘He’ll be here soon to start throwing out siphons. We’re getting ready to irrigate.’

  I didn’t know what a siphon was, and I didn’t really care.

  ‘I’ll have to go, sorry Fi,’ said Stu, climbing out of bed and pulling on a pair of King Gees. ‘But first, I want to show you your office. I’ve been working on it for a month. Will you come and have a look?’ he asked.

  ‘Love to,’ I said, retrieving a pair of jeans and a shirt from my suitcase. I followed Stuart through the back of the house and outside.

  Immediately after I’d altered my working arrangements in Sydney, Stuart had started organising my new office. He’d bulldozed a dilapidated garage some twenty metres from the house, poured gravel onto the site, and trucked in a sizeable kit building. Over the ensuing month, he’d installed air-conditioning, hung wooden Venetian blinds across the building’s three windows, polished the cork floor, and shipped in office furniture. I stared in admiration. The building’s blue corrugated iron walls brought to mind flowing water. A satellite dish was perched on its roof.

  ‘It’s beautiful, Stu,’ I said, impressed. ‘I’ll call it the Danube.’

  Just as the famed Danube River was an important international waterway flowing through ten countries, I fancied that the satellite dish would enable my Danube to be a thriving hub on the world’s information superhighway. That was the theory, anyway.

  ‘Call it whatever you want,’ Stuart said. ‘It’s bloody nice in there. It’s the only place on the property that’s air-conditioned. You can expect regular visits from me.’

  I spent most of Saturday pottering around the Danube. Despite my best efforts to organise telecommunications from Sydney, the satellite connection – my crucial lifeline to the outside world – wasn’t working properly. I telephoned Telstra and prepared for a long wait in the technical support queue. The tedious hold music was finally intercepted by a young customer service officer named Heath. As he guided me through a software installation problem, I suddenly became aware of a rumbling noise drawing nearer. It almost sounded like coffee percolating. It swiftly developed into an unbearable roar; the sliding door rattled with the force of it.

  ‘DO YOU MIND HOLDING, HEATH?’ I bellowed into the phone, unable to hear myself think, let alone listen to Heath’s instructions.

  As I hurried to the door, all fell deathly silent. I stepped outside and surveyed the paddocks before me. A sea of white cotton flowers bobbed noiselessly, illuminated against the vivid green undergrowth. What on earth had caused that hellish racket?

  I gazed towards the eastern boundary of the property. And then I detected something – black arrows swooping and weaving on the horizon. Crows, magpies, or …? The black arrows banked, wings glinting in the sun. I stood rooted to the spot as two military aircraft hurtled towards me, breaching the distance at mach 1, flying at no more than 400 feet. As they streaked above me, I instinctively crouched and covered my head. Their noisy wake hit roughly five seconds later and I clamped my hands over my ears. Within moments, the two aircraft screamed skywards in a breathtaking vertical lift.

  Dazed, I scrambled to my feet to watch their departure.

  ‘Awesome, isn’t it?’ I was startled to find Stu at my elbow, studying the aircraft. ‘This area’s a training zone for F-111 pilots at Amberley,’ he explained. ‘They conduct mock bomb runs against the grain silos up the road. Those guys have just completed their mission.’

  I shook my head, dumbfounded.

 
‘Not a bad show for rural Australia, is it?’ he asked, walking back towards the shed.

  Marvelling at the surreal spectacle I’d just witnessed, I returned to the office and retrieved the telephone.

  ‘Sorry, Heath,’ I started, ‘um, where were we?’

  But the line was dead. I’d kept Heath waiting too long. I slammed down the handset in frustration; I’d waited hours to access his help. Bloody Telstra. Taking a deep breath, I shut down my computer and resolved to call back tomorrow.

  As I walked back to the house through the long grass, stifling heat enveloped me. The temperature gauge on the laundry wall had been rising all day; when I’d checked at lunchtime, it had been hovering around the 40-degree mark. Even in the late afternoon, the temperature was oppressive; my skin responded with prickles of perspiration. It reminded me of Indonesia, but without the humidity. I headed to the external bathroom, desperate to refresh myself. I leant over the basin, splashed tepid water onto my face, then slid open the toilet door.

  All hell broke loose. Disturbed by my intrusion, a cacophony of green tree frogs croaked blue murder. I peered into the toilet bowl and was greeted by seven pairs of beady eyes, daring me to sit down. I shuddered. How was I supposed to use the toilet with them in there, staring up at me? As I attempted to retreat I realised that one of the frogs, tucked up in the railing above the sliding door, hadn’t moved quickly enough when I opened it. With its leg pinned in the guide rail, it was croaking its displeasure.

  ‘Oh, God,’ I murmured, distressed to see an animal in pain.

  As I pushed the door further back, intending to release it, blood spurted across the floor, the toilet seat, the wall. A frog leg dropped from the railing above and fell with a thunk onto the floor before me. I screamed. It was Texas Chainsaw Massacre meets Jandowae – the one-legged frog limped up into the corner of the ceiling, a trail of blood streaming behind it. Roused by my screams, Stu emerged from the shed to find me in the toilet, hands over my mouth, fretting about the amputee. I looked at Stu with eyes brimming, appealing for assistance.