by Rosalie Ham
‘No one wants to come.’ He enjoyed the words coming out of his mouth, but hoped that if Mandy did anything terrible, it would be to him, the damage contained.
‘Do something for me, just once! It might make me happy.’ She stomped out.
He sat at his sister’s dressing table feeling Mandy’s presence eking through the house like carbon monoxide. From the wall, pop princesses – talented people who’d seized the day – looked down at him. Shane Warne and his Ball of the Century would not come, just a stark pitch in a green oval with a few seagulls and someone sweeping the seats in the grandstand. He was a grown man sitting in a small frilly bedroom and he was forced to move furtively through his own home, hiding from his wife. And so was his father.
o0o
Over the next few nights, the erosion continued. The main stream coursed down, carrying the weak and untethered, and it gradually consumed the manmade levee that separated the swimming hole from the river. One night, the last chunk of levee gave in to the flow and was carried away in a brown gritty cloud, leaving the flume gate and filter standing alone in its concrete housing. The swimming hole and creek were finally one again and around its banks, the remaining snakes slid away from their hollows and holes, lizards scurried further afield and spiders scrambled up trees. Out at the camp, the sleeping ferals turned and their swags squelched beneath them. Cooking utensils, buckets, branches lifted and circled away, and plastic chairs slowly rose with the creeping water and followed as the wheels of campervans were hidden by the river. People cried out and babies started to bawl.
There had been no warning, no dogs barking at the slippery, quiet chaos, for the dogs just slid from their beds and kennels and verandahs and set off low in a hunting pack, following the river eastwards again. The alpha dog turned away from the river and headed south, the pack following through the Bergens’ orchards and the Jeongs’ ploughed rows, up and down irrigation ditches and dry channels, past Esther’s old house and barn, beyond the haystack to the yards, tongues hanging and dripping.
18.
Twelve kilometres of channel
Mitch put the idea to his father, but his father shook his head and turned to look at the paddocks and the ivory hue in the morning sky, at the sheep grazing and the donkeys looking glumly towards the house, and the trees dotting the landscape all the way to the wall of dark gums lining the river beyond the property line. He did not want a new landscape. ‘You can go to live at the pub, but I’ll stay . . . though she’ll probably smother me in the night then set fire to the pub.’
o0o
Mandy joined the fit and thin Rural Women’s Club members to take in the changed circumstances. The swimming hole was gone. All that remained was a vast expanse of water and the concrete frame where the pump had once been. The filter was also gone, leaving lonely flume gates. The pontoon strained to free itself from its mooring wires and the jetty leaned with the new current.
Mandy rode back to her newsagency and waited for Stacey. When the customers found her there instead of Paul, they went home to read their papers online, and Mandy spent a great deal of time on her stoop watching the awful people of the town come and go from the Bergens’ new delicatessen. She was eating two-minute noodles when Kelli walked past. ‘What did you buy?’
‘Lentils,’ she said, shoving a spoonful between her painted lips.
‘Fart material.’ Mandy stared hatefully at the German Shepherd. ‘Hippies eat lentils. That’s why those flea-bitten ferals smell.’
‘I’d love to cut their hair, or at least brush it.’
‘They’ve probably got lice.’
Kelli decided she’d had just about enough of Mandy Roper. Everybody said, ‘Give her enough rope,’ but Kelli wasn’t in the mood. ‘You were a nit farm at primary school yourself.’
Mandy straightened. ‘You pooed your pants.’
‘I was sick!’ Kelli’s tolerance for Mandy evaporated completely and she envisioned pushing her and her bicycle into the swimming hole one foggy morning, her fancy riding shoes jammed fast to the pedals. ‘Stacey Masterson and Lana are having dinner Friday night at the Riverglen Lake Resort restaurant. What are you doing, Mandy?’
Mandy stepped back into the gloom of her newsagency and its lotto tickets and gossip magazines and wanted to cry. They always had the last fucking word, this town. Well, not for much longer . . .
At lunchtime Kev’s van left the garage and headed east. Mandy swung her attention to the shire offices and, sure enough, a few minutes later Lana went to her car and also drove east, as if she was heading somewhere for shire business. When Paul wandered down to the German Shepherd for potato soup, Mandy stuck her Back in 5 sticker to the door and followed.
o0o
Kev arrived at Bishops Corner in his all-purpose service and maintenance van, and in the sunshine, flies buzzing and small things rustling in the ticking crop around them, he and Mitch gave the combine harvester the once-over. They greased nipples and checked fanbelts, oil and air filters, then listened for squeals, grumbles or thuds coming from the huge rattling engine. Kevin declared the leviathan fit for the thin sea of ruined wheat, then reminded Mitch that ‘eighty percent of crop loss occurs at the platform or cutter bar or gatherer, so maintenance is imperative’. Then he wished his friend a good harvest and drove away.
Mitch emptied the last bit of feed from the storage silo into the trailer and thought that if he did lose the farm to the banks and his so-called wife, then at least he’d never have to feed sheep again. He opened the manholes and walked around his silos, banging the sides until the remnants of grain peppered the dirt beneath the outlet hatch; then he climbed to the top and reached in with his long broom and brushed the sides as far as he could reach and stood up to peruse the sad patchy crop he’d soon be harvesting. The donkeys watched him from their paddocks. A pair of brolgas he had known for many years, which had returned with the rain, rested at the water trough in the house paddock. Beyond them, a white vehicle waited at the house – State Water Authority. He cleaned a couple more silos but the white sedan remained parked at the house and he felt the angst his father was suffering so he gave in and went home, leaving the hatches and manholes open to the cleansing power of the elements. The donkeys watched him drive past then moved to press their furry breasts against the fence and inhaled the trail of sweet grain.
Stacey was sitting at the kitchen table with Cal, drinking tea. When Mitch came in he stood just a little too eagerly and shook hands a little too sincerely. He started the discussion by mentioning that he cycled, or rather exercised, in the morning with Mitch’s wife, hoping Mitch wouldn’t think he was back-dooring him.
Mitch said, ‘Comes in handy, being fit.’
‘Now, the supply channel –’
‘I don’t want it anymore.’
‘But the deal, as far as I understand it, is that if we match the water saving you’d have made on Miss Shugg’s deal, you’ll retain and maintain the channel.’
‘I haven’t heard that version. I was told you’d up my water allocation to forty percent, but I think that’s just a tactic for an alternative motivation.’
‘I’ll match you on the water savings you’d get from Miss Shugg’s proposal.’
‘Not interested.’
‘If you keep the channel I’ll make sure you get a good deal on a sprinkler system.’
‘What about Esther’s water?’
‘You won’t need it.’
‘It’s mine already.’
‘Your proposal for a new riverfront system at Esther Shugg’s does not meet our environmental outcomes.’
‘Jesus, mate, this is another circular subject. It does. Joe Islip’s checked. You just want me to buy pipes and pumps and meters and the rest of the gear. I don’t need it, I can’t afford it, especially when my wife gets going; I’m ruined if she asks for money.’
‘Then there’s no need to do a t
hing if you keep the channel.’
Mitch straightened, his voice rising. ‘You’re talking to a man who’s not winning anything at the moment, but I know I can win this one because I know what you’re up to.’
‘What if we pay to upgrade the supply channel?’
Stacey could see his new car slipping away; he was sitting at the table facing the truth, completely stumped.
Then the old man said, ‘You need the channel, and you are a fox in a trap with a dead lamb in your mouth, son.’
Mitch pulled out a chair and sat down to face the man. ‘The relevant officials at the Water Authority tell me Esther’s water is mine, and so is her pump. You and Cyril tell me Esther’s water can’t be mine. You are lying, and they know you are, and my question is, why aren’t your superiors doing anything about that?’
Stacey blinked. Mitch had gone around them. Joe Islip had gone straight to State Water; he had gone straight over Glenys’s head. A tumour-like presence pressed on his bladder. Was it his prostate or just tea? He noticed his white-knuckled hands and stood up, banging his chair on the antique sideboard. ‘Thanks for your time.’
Stacey wound his window down as he drove towards the gate and inhaled the warm air. Two donkeys stood forlornly beside an empty silo and he felt their hunger and disappointment, so he turned the car radio up, put his hand on the roof of the car and tapped along as the brown and green paddocks slipped past. If he was in the shit, he was in the same shit as Glenys. It would be their heads that would roll. Stacey was just a young man doing as he was told.
o0o
He talked to Bennett about wild dogs and Bennett said the cull was planned for Boxing Day. ‘I sent an email to everyone.’
‘Mine get deleted,’ Mitch said, though he could have checked the website.
Bennett dropped a box of Foxoff on the back of Mitch’s ute. ‘The ferals say their dogs are vegetarian – “peaceful and domesticated”, they reckon. Leave a bit of bait about and then we’ll cull, just need the authorisation. Remind your neighbours.’
Mitch’s ute found its way around the corner and down the back lane into the yard behind the pub. He came through the kitchen and said hi to Elsie, who was holding a pen and frowning at a newspaper. ‘Still lacking subject for debate, ten letters starting with M?’
‘Motionless.’
‘Thanks.’
When Neralie saw him alongside the regulars, her face lit up.
The regulars gushed and gasped. ‘Oh my . . . and when he stepped into the room . . . everything else fell away . . . and we were alone together.’
Neralie pulled a beer for Mitch and watched him drink it. ‘How’s things?’ she asked.
‘Same. How’s yours?’
And the regulars shrugged and said, ‘Same.’
They stood on either side of the bar and a sweet urge swelled between them. One day they would settle into whatever it was they’d end up as and make their lives excellent, and she’d feel alive and amazed again. He asked for another beer and she put one in front of him, smiling all the while, and the regulars said, ‘My heart is heaving under my bodice.’
Mitch looked at the regulars. ‘You blokes right for harvest?’
‘We are,’ they said.
Mitch turned at the door to throw Neralie a kiss and the regulars threw kisses back. ‘It was only a moment . . .’
‘. . . but it will last for eternity.’
Mitch and Tink took a drive to the spot. The sky remained blue and dotted with fluffy white clouds, and puddles shone like silver plates all the way to the horizon. The air was soft, but when they swung through the gate, it became thick with the stink of rotting rabbits and the gut-churning stench of a dead fox emanating from the acres of brittle foliage. They passed Esther’s dear old house and her dear old tractor heading towards Esther’s old pump. There was more water in the river and it brought rubbish and black water, but the birds were back. He planted the pellets by the weir where the dogs and foxes crossed, hoping they’d get them before anything else ate them, and his thoughts turned to the wedge-tailed eagles. He had not seen them for days, possibly longer, but in the thin, crisp canopies of the stressed gums, sulphur-crested cockatoos cackled and screeched, and on a partially submerged trunk the pelicans lined up, and a cormorant sat close by on the old weir. A few herons and a handful of ibis lingered, watching the increased flow on its way to the sea. ‘Where do you think most of that water’s going, Tink?’ He put the ute in gear.
As they drove back towards the road, they spied the blue roof of Lana’s Commodore and the rusted roof of Kev’s ancient repair van hiding together behind a tall stand of thick cumbungi, so Mitch turned and headed the long way to Esther’s. The ewe was huddled under the water trough, her legs folded beneath her, exhausted, head drooping, and Mitch felt a brick of cold fear in his guts. There was no sign of the lamb but the prints were everywhere, the frantic splayed hoof and paw prints.
‘Dogs.’
The ewe didn’t try to move or draw away from Mitch, so he carried her bleeding, torn body to his ute. He looked at Esther’s old house, the barn where the owls were, and he hated the townies and their pet puppies and the ferals and their shitty, smelly, dusty, flea-bitten camp and their dogs.
Later, when he told Esther he’d shot her ewe, she looked at the sun glittering off the swimming hole opposite and said, ‘I should never have left.’
o0o
When he stepped into the office after his disappointing day trying to unload solar-powered meters, Stacey said, ‘Mitchell Bishop has already contacted the State Water Authority. He told them we won’t let him bulldoze his channel. Next they’ll be wanting to know why. I don’t want to be part of it anymore.’
‘Son,’ Cyril said, and slapped his shoulder, ‘you’re already part of it.’ He patted his pockets, looking for cigarettes, but found only his phone. There were three missed calls from Glenys Dingle.
Stacey rubbed his temples and remembered the hair there was receding. ‘The Water Authority knows –’
‘They just want to be able to report the required water savings to the government so they can put it in a media release.’ He winked at Stacey. ‘Enjoy your night.’
Cyril went home to his wife’s shed and counted his unsold meters and pumps and calculated how much he still owed on them. Then he checked his super balance online. He wondered how much the Water Authority actually did know about the supply channel, his pumps and meters, and Riverglen Lake. His phone rang again so he turned it to silent and went to the new servo and bought a packet of cigarettes.
o0o
At the appointed time Neralie turned up at Jasey’s. When Lana tugged off her rhinestone skirt and turned to pick up a dress, Neralie hissed, ‘Jesus, Lana! You’ve got sump oil on your arse!’ and went to guard the bedroom door.
Lana turned her bottom to the mirror. Greasy handprints darkened the pale skin of her buttocks and bruised the elastic of her G-string. ‘Oops,’ she said, and the crack of the .22 made them freeze. They heard Jasey say, ‘I missed.’
Neralie said quietly, ‘Many lovely, single farmers come into my bar every night, Lana.’
‘So why don’t you get yourself one?’
‘Touché.’
Then Jasey was there. ‘You stuff this date up, Lana, and I’ll shoot you.’
‘Don’t have sexual intercourse with him,’ Neralie said. ‘Definitely do not do any sexing.’
‘And don’t tell him everything. Remember – be alluring,’ Jasey added.
‘Stay sober.’
‘Get drunk when you get home instead.’
‘We’ll be waiting.’
Stacey pulled up outside Jasey’s house, approached the door, knocked and checked his hair in the window they were standing behind. When Lana opened the door – ‘How are ya?’ – he told her she looked nice. Neralie and Jasey watched him watch her arse all
the way to the company car. He let her open her own door because women in the country thought you thought they were helpless if you opened a door for them. Lana didn’t look back to the house, just drove off with the new boy in town and his pale jeans and brand-new boots.
Kev sauntered in from the back verandah, a gasping redfin in his hands, and said, ‘What stinks?’
‘Cologne,’ Jasey said.
‘I’ve got to get back to work,’ Neralie said, and left.
Jasey took a step towards her boyfriend, her one and only ever boyfriend, and she took the fish from his hand and drew his arms around her waist. ‘It’s time for the next phase, Kevvy,’ she said affectionately, pressing against him.
He looked afraid.
‘You should marry me.’
‘Sounds good to me.’ And he wondered what Lana and Stacey were talking about.
o0o
For the first five miles or so, the atmosphere in the car was stiff, the pauses thick and the commonplace dialogue a little too loud and eager as they drove past flat land and dry trees. Then Stacey asked Lana what she wanted in life.
‘I want us to all go back to how we used to be five years ago.’
‘How was that?’
‘I want the farmers to hang at the pub, joking and laughing, and I want lots of mums at school fetes, and I want fundraising film nights and cocktail parties again, and kids screaming on the footy oval and in cricket teams and at the swimming hole, and I want the town to show up for gymkhanas and sheep shows and race meetings, and I want Christmas parties that go for three days.’
‘Really? That all?’
‘I reckon that’s all there is. The rest is just killing time.’
They were shown to a seat by the window at the restaurant. Orange streetlights glowed from tall poles around the dark chasm that was the new lake, but only two lights twinkled from the new resort apartments on the manmade hill above it. Stacey asked the waiter for their best champagne and studied the wine list. Lana decided on the yabby cocktail and the smoked cod salad and hoped they’d sourced their produce from the river now that it was flowing rather than stagnant. Her date would have steak, she knew. Or the roast.