Finding
Kerra
Finding Kerra
Published by Rhiza Edge,
An Imprint of Rhiza Press
www.rhizaedge.com.au
PO BOX 1519
Capalaba QLD 4157
Australia
© Rosanne Hawke, 2018
Cover Design by Production Works
Layout by Rhiza Press
A catalogue record for this book is available from the
National Library of Australia.
ISBN: 978-1-925563-48-1
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Finding
Kerra
Rosanne Hawke
For Robin, my brother and friend.
I respectfully acknowledge the Diyari people as the original owners and caretakers of the land where this story is set.
1
When I returned to Australia last year, it had been the men’s legs that shocked me—hairy, knobbly-kneed, muscly—all on display in shorts. But this July, when I arrived at Mulga Spring, Blake’s station home in the Far North, I was freaked out by the dogs. It was a bit of a worry, as Dad would say.
With care I lifted the piece of wire from the front gate, hoping to surprise Blake. He wasn’t expecting me until the mail run next morning. But I wasn’t prepared for the painful screech when the gate swung open nor, as I pushed through to the garden, for the onslaught of barking and snarling dogs that instantly appeared. There were only three, but it seemed like a whole pack. When I stood still, they stepped back, but if I moved forward, so did they, baring dragon fangs as if they’d rip me to shreds. Maybe surprising Blake hadn’t been my best idea. I retreated carefully towards the gate but one of the dogs circled behind me, blocking my way.
Panic drowned me as I realised the dogs wouldn’t let me out. Two roved round me, while the third biggest dog stood a metre away, staring as if he planned to mesmerise me. The dog behind me closed in and nipped my ankle. It didn’t take long to decide what to do next: I shouted, ‘Anyone at home?’
A familiar voice yelled back from the house, ‘Blue! Luke! Get out of it! Bow, ya mongrel! Drop!’
Two dogs disappeared like spirits; the one left in front of me flopped instantly to the ground, his head down, ears back.
‘Blake?’ My voice wobbled.
A screen door banged. My legs were shaky as Blake strode towards me. It wasn’t quite dark yet and I could see his unsmiling face. It was humiliating knowing I hadn’t started off on my best foot, but I shrugged that thought aside as my heart lifted. It was so good to see him; it had been months—his sun-bleached hair had grown.
He spoke to the dog first. ‘Stay out of it!’ Blake made a movement with his hand and the dog pressed itself closer to the ground.
‘Here.’ Blake was talking to me now, his voice softer. ‘This is Bow. Put your hand near his nose and he’ll know not to do that again.’
It took me a moment to obey, even though the dog seemed harmless with Blake standing there.
‘Is he yours?’
‘Yep. The head cattle dog here. He’s trained to run the dogs like that—just doing his job, but he’ll know not to round you up again.’ With relief I recognised the humour in Blake’s voice, and he put an arm round my shoulders as he turned me towards the house. I finally saw his smile that I liked so much. That familiar dimple at the corner of his mouth.
‘Why didn’t you say you’d arrived in town?’
‘I was about to call when a guy said he knew you and was going this way. He’s got a Toyota ute.’ I would never have ridden with a guy I didn’t know in Adelaide, but the manager of the Road House said it was fine.
Blake’s answer sounded amused, but I couldn’t read his expression. ‘Everybody has a Toyota up here, Jaime. Though it would have been Matt Hall. No one else would come out this way.’
‘Yeah, Matt.’ The young guy had tipped his hat as he swung back into the ute, then sped off in a scuttle of gravel, his dogs grinning at me from the tray.
‘C’mon inside’, Blake said. I caught his gaze on me as he picked up my bag and I followed him towards the house. It was magnificent with the sun setting behind it, like a nineteenth-century station house on a souvenir tea towel. A wide veranda circled the house and plenty of sheds stood nearby. I could hear a steady thumping, like the heartbeat of something huge, and the clank and buzz of the giant pinwheel that rose above the house.
The sky was lavender, purple near the horizon, and as I watched, streaks of yellow and orange spread above me. It was different from any sky I’d ever seen, as if the sun had been weeping. The beauty of it stirred a chord in my mind that surprised me with its sharpness. Here I was at last, seeing the heart of this Australia I’d been born in.
I took a huge breath. When Blake Townsend had offered between-semester work experience—housekeeping on his family station with horse riding lessons thrown in—Mum had thought it a good idea. ‘You’d see what the other half of Australia is like. Be nice up there in July—not too hot.’ She sounded enthusiastic, even though I knew she was still worried about my getting over ‘all that happened in Afghanistan’ earlier in the year. Typically, Dad was more concerned about Blake. ‘What do we know about him? You’ll be a long way from everywhere up there, so no funny business.’ But Dad didn’t have to worry—Blake was my friend.
Blake took me into the hallway, past the dogs, one of which licked my toes as I walked through the door. It was Bow; I recognised him because he was the biggest of the three dogs and had no black patches on his face like the others. I accepted his apology and patted him on the head, feeling the security of having a powerful ally. The feeling quickly went to my head and I reached to pat the dog beside him. I was rewarded with a growl and Blake’s swift grip on my arm.
‘Don’t touch the other dogs!’
I jumped at Blake’s tone, then he relaxed. ‘Sorry. I guess you wouldn’t know. They’re blue heelers and they’re not pets. Those two are Dad’s dogs. Bow’s okay, he’s mine. You can pat him, he’s smart and the boss dog but the others will rip your fingers off, given half a chance.’
‘Fine.’ I smiled, showing I was willing to learn, but my smile froze as I entered the kitchen. Another girl stood staring at me; not just any girl, but a fashion model out of the junk mail for R M Williams bush wear.
‘This is Richelle.’ Blake put my bag down. ‘She helps out sometimes.’
Wasn’t that what I was supposed to be doing? I wondered how long she’d stay. Instinctively I knew there wouldn’t be enough room for both of us. She was staring at me as if Blake would need lots of extra help just having me around.
‘Blake told me you lived in Pakistan,’ she said.
No hello or how was the bus trip?
‘I thought you’d be foreign, you know, black.’
How rude! I guess it was the emphasis she put on the word ‘black’ that shocked me, like it should matter. Blake’s colour heightened as he watched my reaction, but immediately I was on home ground. She was just like Kate Sample, a girl at school in Adelaide. Kate used to say stuff like that when I first arrived.
I smiled at Richelle. ‘No, I’m not black but I feel like I am at times.’
Richelle’s eyes glazed over a little, probably trying to work out what I meant. Before she could say anything else, Blake’s father strolled in. He was the legendary stockman, complete with the outback felt hat.
‘G’day. You m
ust be young Jaime.’ He spoke as though he knew all about me, making me feel warm and welcome. He had an outdoor, sun-baked look about him, but even with the age lines cutting his face he was what my mother would call an attractive man. Blake’s father left without another word and I had the impression that even though he didn’t speak much, when he did it’d be worth hearing.
Blake picked up my bag again just as his father called back, ‘Seen Kerra, Blake?’
‘Nup.’ Blake sounded as if he didn’t care either, and I guessed there must be another dog loose. He took me down the hallway.
‘This is your room, Jaime. I’m glad you came.’
And there was the old Blake I knew in Adelaide, smiling his old ‘Coke ad’ smile.
‘The lights go out at eleven,’ he said. I must have looked confused, because he added, ‘We generate our own electricity.’
So that was the hum I could hear.
‘If you’re dying to finish the last chapter like me, there’s an oil lamp.’ He gestured to the mantelpiece and I gasped in delight.
‘I had one just like this in Pakistan.’
He seemed glad I was pleased. Although pleased wasn’t exactly the right word; it was more like wonder. I couldn’t believe an old oil lamp could make me feel like that.
‘Never thought anything would be the same, hey?’
I shook my head. ‘Trying to find similarities just gets disappointing. Best to focus on what’s here.’ I sounded like my mother.
‘Maybe you’ll be surprised.’
I looked up at him, interested, but he didn’t elaborate.
‘Bathroom’s down the hall.’ He paused. ‘We pump from a dam too, so you have to go easy on the water. Sorry.’
I shrugged to show it didn’t matter.
‘We’ll start the riding lessons tomorrow.’
‘Don’t forget to tell me how I can help. That’s why I’m here. That is, if Richelle—’
‘No problem. She’s Matt’s sister. They live next door.’
‘Next door? I didn’t see any houses.’
He chuckled. ‘Twenty kay as the crow flies. They have the next station, Bulcanna. That’s “next door” up here.’ He put my bag inside the doorway, then looked back at me. His green eyes softened and I felt we were back in Adelaide. ‘Get some rest after that bus ride. Have you eaten? There’s cold lamb in the fridge.’
‘Thanks, but I had tea at the Road House.’
He gave me a sticky note. ‘That’s the wi-fi. When the satellite works. We don’t use the landline much, it’s an old party line. Don’t want everyone knowing our business.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘If you need anything else, my room’s out the back.’
Ordinary words but he held my gaze as if they were special.
‘Thanks.’
And he was gone. Maybe I was just tired but I’d expected more, like a good talk, or a hug. I’d needed one by then.
At least the room had a comfortable lived-in look. The furniture was antique, dark and polished. It looked like it’d been dusted. I couldn’t imagine Richelle dusting, even though Blake said she helped out. An old-fashioned fireplace, unused, was set into one wall. A push-up window was on the opposite side, with a fly screen that swung out towards the yard. I pulled down the blind and caught a brief shadow of the windmill whirring against the darkening sky.
To make the room feel familiar, I unpacked, putting clothes away and arranging my books on the bedside table. My sister Elly had made me a card with a drawing of her holding our cat Basil on the front. I set that on the window sill. The dressing table had an oval mirror and miniature drawers on either side. Between the drawers was a photo in a gilt-edged frame. The understanding eyes of a woman Mum’s age looked out at me and again I felt warmed and welcomed. They were Blake’s eyes and I guessed this was his mother. I knew she’d died but he’d never told me how.
When I arrived home this February after visiting Pakistan, I’d told him about being abducted, taken to Afghanistan and about my friend, Liana, dying there. He was sympathetic and he’d listened, but after a while I knew there was a closed door he wasn’t letting me through.
It was another friend, Danny Dimitriades, who was able to go past the listening; Danny, whose grandmother also died while I was in Pakistan during the summer break.
‘It hurts, doesn’t it?’ was the first thing he’d said. I was relieved. All my family, friends or rellies who knew about Liana kept off the subject of ‘hurt’. Maybe they thought if they made me think about it I’d rush around the room like a mad rhino, breaking things. I did once. It was so out of character, guess it scared everybody, even me. But Danny and I cried together.
‘It’ll take at least a year to grow around it. I know—Grandpop passed when I was in Year 10. So you see, I’m an old hand.’
He’d made me feel more accepting of myself. He knew so much about life; a lot of it came from his family—they’re so close—yet the rest came from just living and doing it with all his heart and soul. ‘Just keep talking about it, that’s what we do in our family. Talk, talk, talk.’ He made a face and I laughed.
Mum took me to a grief counsellor. I didn’t realise that my topsy turvy feelings were normal.
‘Emotions are not tame,’ the counsellor had said, ‘so you won’t feel them in any particular order. Some days you’ll feel fine, on others you may feel angry, sad, guilty…’ She had been right: I must have felt every emotion on the ‘grief-feelings’ wheel. Months later they could still bite me when I was least expecting it.
Now it was over halfway through the year and when Blake had said recently in one short sentence (as though it was a secret) that his mum had died, I knew he must have understood. Finding her photo here made me think this had been her special room—maybe a sewing or reading room, or where she’d sat with Blake as a baby. She didn’t look like she minded me being there, and I shook my head at my imagination. How could a photo of a woman I’d never met pull at my heart strings?
After I changed into my PJs and snow-leopard-print dressing gown, I sat up against the bed pillows with my phone. The screen showed no-service, so I typed in the wi-fi password and sent a message first to Mum and then to Dad that I’d arrived safely. Dad’s answer was immediate, like he’d been watching for it.
Glad to hear it, sunshine. Look after yourself and check in. Love you. I smiled at the concern he was trying to hide.
Then I took my research project out of my backpack. It was the draft of a story from Liana’s past she had told me before she died. When I was younger, living in Pakistan, I’d understood Liana was quiet, even withdrawn. Being with her was like watching her gaze begin at the horizon, then settle on you instead. Even though I was only in Year 8 I knew she wasn’t coping. I think it was the dreams. She woke up one night screaming. We heard her even from the next dorm. That was just before the terrorist attack on the school.
I was engrossed, considering how writing Liana’s story had helped me through the last six months. Helping me cope with that grey, watery expanse that Mr Bolden, my English teacher, called grieving. At first I didn’t notice the door of my room being pushed ajar. When I heard the little sigh, I jumped, thinking it was Blake, then my gaze travelled down to the light switch and met a child’s pair of eyes, blue like a winter’s clear sky.
‘I didn’t know there were any other girls staying here,’ I blurted out. Not the best way to make friends but it didn’t seem to faze her.
‘Are you Jaime?’ was all she said.
‘Yes.’
She inched in then. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’ She wasn’t being polite; she said it as though my presence truly mattered.
‘Really?’ I wanted to ask why but this white-haired girl didn’t seem the sort to speak unless it was already in her mind to say. ‘What’s your name?’ I asked instead.
‘Kerra.’ She crawled on to the bed; not too close. Sh
e looked like a waif, perched there scrutinising me.
She pointed at my dressing gown. ‘Is that a real skin?’
‘No!’ I spluttered. ‘I love snow leopards. I’d never wear their fur.’
Her face was deadpan; maybe it wouldn’t have bothered her if it had been real. ‘What are you doing?’ She edged closer, watching me as though her next breath depended on what I said.
‘I’m writing a story. I’m just fixing it up for Year 12 English.’
The girl ignored the Year 12 stuff. ‘A true story?’ Even her interest was subdued. ‘What’s it about?’
‘About a friend of mine called Liana. She used to tell me lots of stories and they made her feel better when she was scared. When we lived in Pakistan—’
‘You lived in Pakistan?’
I nodded, surprised at how incoherent I sounded speaking about Liana. The counsellor said my grief was tangled with PTSD from being kidnapped. I didn’t think I felt stressed at the time. Returning to Australia seemed worse. The questions were hard to field: What were the terrorists like?, Were you forced to marry one?, Were they hot? (That was Kate Sample). Even a radio station rang for my story. Dad said no. You need to get through this quietly, he’d said. I was relieved.
‘When did you live in Pakistan?’ Kerra was sizing me up, a disbelieving pout on her face. I didn’t look Pakistani, and I wasn’t really, just felt Pakistani sometimes. ‘Is that why you talk funny?’
‘I grew up there, that’s why I have an accent. We came back to live in Australia last year.’
She seemed satisfied, or maybe she wasn’t as interested in me as I first thought. ‘Can you tell me a story one day?’
‘About Liana?’
She shook her head. ‘One of her stories about Pakistan, or one of yours. An adventure.’
I blew out a breath. I knew by heart so many of Liana’s stories that they came to mind as if she were still beside me telling them.
‘No one tells me stories. And besides—’ Kerra stopped then. Maybe she would never have said it if I hadn’t prompted her.
Finding Kerra Page 1