Pulling herself up she limped on. Here was the first great expanse of rocks. So the car park was within reach. The path was wider and smoother and though her knee still hurt it was no longer a question of feeling for each foothold.
At the golden flowers Marian paused, leaning against a trunk and letting her knee hang loose, ignoring the throbbing. They were lamps. Golden green lamps on this dark mountain.
In the silence she realised there was someone else on the path, coming from the direction of the car park. She felt a prickle of fear, aware of her inability to run away.
A wheezing man appeared, face red and blotchy.
‘G’day.’
‘Hi.’
‘Good view?’
‘Great. Oh yeah, wonderful.’
But surely he wasn’t planning to get to the top, wheezing like that? His heart would never make it.
‘Seen the Queen of Sheba?’ he asked.
‘Pardon?’
‘The Queen of Sheba. You seen it?’
‘I don’t know …’
‘You should see it. You like flowers? You like that dryandra? You’d like the Queen of Sheba. Orchid.’
Marian thought of the florist’s window, the great drooping sprays of fleshy green. But he read her mind. ‘Native. Not those flashy Asian things. Small.’
‘Oh …’
‘Ask them at the Retreat. They’ll show you. Beautiful thing. Wish I could grow one.’
With a wave of his hand, saving his breath for the major effort of moving his body along the track, the man passed her.
‘Are you going to the top?’ she called after him.
‘No. Did that once. Long time ago now. Carried my father down. Never been back.’
He disappeared around a bend in the track.
Marian stared after him. Carried his father down? But how?
Easing her foot to the ground she moved her weight onto it. It seemed to work.
Did he mean on a stretcher? His father must have been hurt.
Or dead.
She limped slowly onwards. The path was not as steep, the rocks smaller.
You never knew about other people’s lives. What they’d survived.
The relief of level ground was enormous. Her knee ached a little, but she was walking almost normally. With a sense of relief she spotted the car through the trees.
She’d done it.
And she could do more, could do it all. Whatever happened, whatever came next. Whatever was needed.
She drove home slowly, favouring her knee. The scrub of the National Park gave way to farmland and she felt the tide of energy creeping back inside her, the mist clearing. A duck flew up beside the road in a flurry of beating wings and flew parallel to the car, rising and falling, then veered away over the fence, skimmed the wall of a dam and plumped down out of sight.
What was it Lee had said? Just shut up and listen …
Well she, Marian, was ready to listen.
Dear Lee, I’d like to hear your story, and your family’s story, any time that you feel like talking. Wherever and in whatever way suits you. I want to know …
Everything had a new clarity. Marian saw the great sweep of yellow canola in the paddocks below Bluff Knoll. The wheat was up too, late, but surviving. If they got a bit more rain it’d be fine. She saw that the Landcare trees around the Mitilup swamp were doing well. She saw that Bryants had cut up the marri that had come down across the fence and that the road was finally open again after last year’s storm damage. She saw that someone was painting old Birdy Thompson’s house for him. Hopefully they’d fix the gutters while they were about it so his tanks would do some good when the rain came.
The lambs in her own paddock were skittering in the wind and Brian’s oil mallees were more than a foot tall.
Pulling up she opened the car door and sat for a moment to enjoy the quietness after the drone of the engine. Once she’d levered herself out of the seat and crossed to the house she found that she was stiff, but the shooting pain in her knee had vanished.
Jeb was standing on the verandah, tail waving. Marian lowered herself into a chair and he put his head on her knee and gazed at her with rheumy eyes. When she scratched behind his ears he thumped his tail on the boards.
Marian stretched. A bath would get rid of the stiffness.
Perhaps she’d go and see Michelle. Give Tara the present.
But first of all, before anything else, she was going to cook herself a meal. She was starving. One of the caulis from the garden, if they’d survived the last week.
And something good for Jeb.
Leaning down she took his face in her hands. ‘Let’s get some dinner, old boy.’
acknowledgements
My thanks to the following:
Jeri Kroll, Jill Golden and the staff and students of the Department of English, Creative Writing and Australian Studies at Flinders University. I was assisted by an Australian Post Graduate Award and a Flinders University travel grant.
Eva Hornung for inspirational mentoring.
Nicky Page for support of every kind.
Dee Basinki, Dinah Cohen, Jill McDougall and Ann Marie Morrissey for miraculous financial assistance.
Roxxy Bent, Liz Bolton, Deb Booker, Lyn Chadwick, John Chadwick, Megan Chadwick, Kaz Eaton, Jerry Griffin, Obi Ind, Jayne Jennifer, Fiona Johnston, Peter Lake, Laine Langridge, Miriel Lenore, Gay Lynch, Michele McCrea, Kate Makowiecka, Annette Marner, Duncan Merrilees, Frances Phoenix, Louise Rowe (WA Department of Corrective Services), Anna Solding, Polly Sumner, Emily Sutherland, Cath Taylor, Mark Taylor and Ross Wilson for support, ideas, editing and criticism.
The South Australian Writers’ Centre and ArtsSA.
Michael Bollen, Laura Andary and all at Wakefield Press.
Sheila Drummond of the Drummond Agency
The Noongar people of Gnowangerup for sharing their stories at the centenary of the township in 2004. I pay my respects to the traditional owners, past present and future, of that country and of the Swan River country.
With two exceptions all the characters and the stories in this novel, and the town of Tolgerup, are fictional.
The first exception is the story of Fanny Balbuk protesting at the gates of Government House. My thanks to Kim Scott for that.
The second exception is the story of the young Aboriginal man coming into the hotel. That one comes from my own experience. I was the barmaid.
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