The Last Dingo Summer

by Jackie French

  Jed began to feed her. Suddenly she realised she was crying. Grieving, deeply and properly, as perhaps she never had before. The last five months had been shock and retreat, and sometimes anger too, but not grief.

  Now she was simply sad. A hard feeling, but good.

  Depression would come again, but at least she knew her enemy. Knew how to face it too. Because even an hour with friends or family was enough to bring her back from her abusive childhood and the searing loss of widowhood. The present had love and beauty and even joy, even if it no longer had Sam.

  She reached for a nappy, blew her nose, then threw the nappy into the washing basket. It missed.

  A cry came from the hills beyond Overflow. She sat still, listening, then realised it had called for many nights, but the song had never registered before.

  It must be the dingo Sam had heard on that last morning before happiness was snatched from them. Maybe the dingo was crying for Sam too.

  She was being stupid. Of course it wasn’t. It must be calling to other dingoes, but none were answering.

  Was it the last dingo ever near Gibber’s Creek? she thought bleakly. Would it always be alone?

  But there were dingoes in other areas. Perhaps the dingo needed to leave, to find companions, a life filled with whatever dingoes did. Just as she needed to leave the small box of life with Sam, where she had known complete happiness, and start widening her own life again. Sam’s life might be missing, but she had to find hers again, for Mattie’s sake, and for her own.

  And for the sake of everyone else who loved her. Somehow she had forgotten she was loved by so many people. But being loved brought responsibility to those who loved you too. She, who had never been loved before she came to Gibber’s Creek, needed to remember that.

  Mattie was almost asleep again, surfeited. She put the baby back in her cot, tucked the koala by her side, bent and retrieved the nappy, then padded back to her own room.

  A glint in the darkness stopped her. She peered out the window. The moon was a thin crescent, a cheese rind in the sky, but the night was clear. That and the starlight were enough to make out the shape of a car, through the trees, down on the track to the billabong. Memory bit with teeth of fear for two seconds, then she remembered. Merv was gone. If those were two teenagers necking, well, good luck to them. And if someone had a flat tyre, they could call the NRMA because she was lousy with a jack, and anyway, she couldn’t leave Mattie to go down and help.

  She pulled the blind down, looked at the empty bed and let grief stab her once again. But despite that, she knew she would sleep properly again.

  Chapter 14

  Dress to Impress as a Shepherdess

  Here in Gibber’s Creek, fashion associated with sheep is decidedly of a more rugged variety. Singlets. Stubbies. But on the Paris catwalk the ‘shepherdess’ look is all the rage, and none of it includes moleskins and Akubras. Ladies, it’s time to embrace your inner Little Bo Poop. Think pastels, pettigoats and lace while sweetly reclining in a meadow, not in a paddock among the bindi-eyes. And no Blundstone boots please.

  NANCY

  Nancy rubbed her eyes as the car bounced down the Dribble driveway. Each bump reminded her of the young man who was no longer here. Sam had been the one who kept Dribble’s drains clear, the puddles filled in. Nancy made a note to ask Michael to clear the gutters again and to bring the tractor to slash under the fruit trees so the ground thrushes could see the snakes coming.

  She paused before opening the car door. She was tired to her bones, achingly tired. She had woken that morning standing in the kitchen, the hem of her nightie damp from dew, the night slowly lifting out through the window to grey.

  Where had she been? Worse, what had she done? All she could remember was running, struggling, trying to beat back the impossible, to keep those she loved alive.

  Those she had failed to keep alive, more than thirty years earlier. She had to peer in at the boys and Michael to reassure herself that this was reality, the secure woman in the land she loved, with those she loved about her . . .

  It was almost as if she was back in the internment camp in Malaya, and all this was just the dream she longed to come back to. But the dream had gone all wrong: the loss of the sheep, the farming plans in abeyance until it rained again. There would be no ‘Shall we put lucerne in the creek paddock next year or how about foliage turnips?’ Farm life would be survival, not growth, for the next few years. The bushfire scars were still vivid on every tree despite their green shoots. She still felt the loss of animals all around her, missed the neighbours who had been forced to leave instead of rebuild, a Christmas card perhaps instead of waves each time they passed on the road, the loss of familiar faces at the CWA, bushfire brigade meetings, Hospital Board . . .

  The loss of Andy . . . though you were sort of prepared for old friends to die. But Sam . . . and Jed’s grief . . .

  I should have come here more often, she thought. But she, who had carefully ignored her own grief after the war, now had no words of help to give. And Jed was so very good at locking comfort out.

  She opened the door finally, forced her face into what she hoped was an encouraging smile, walked up the ramp and knocked. ‘Cooee? Only me.’

  Footsteps. ‘Hello, me.’

  Something was different. Jed looked tired, but no longer weighed down by it. Nancy bent forwards for a kiss, then took Mattie from her and breathed in the lovely scent of baby hair. The world steadied a little again.

  ‘Book!’ said Mattie hopefully, grabbing Nancy’s earlobe.

  Nancy disengaged the tiny fingers and looked enquiringly at Jed. Jed shrugged. ‘She thinks “book” means “food”. Or every good thing in the world.’

  ‘Or maybe she just wants a story. How is she sleeping?’

  ‘Wonderfully. Just not at two am. Come in.’

  Nancy glanced at her great-niece by marriage, then tried not to stare at the house, which was not just clean — it never had been too bad — but fresher, brighter.

  Jed saw her look and grinned. ‘Blue called Mrs Purdon and her daughters to come over and spring-clean the house early this morning. Well, late-summer-clean it. Curtains washed and ironed, mats shampooed, windows washed, floors polished.’

  ‘My word,’ said Nancy, trying to remember the last time anyone had washed the curtains at Overflow. But the real difference was Jed’s grin.

  She had been desperately worried about Jed for months. It was a fear she couldn’t share with Blue and Joseph. They had both lost too much, with Sam’s accident so soon after the death of a beloved brother. They were still in shock themselves. She, of all people, knew that waiting, grasping that feeble feather of hope, all the while knowing how little chance there truly was, could be more devastating than loss.

  Her fear for Jed had gone even deeper than she had felt when Jed had been menaced once again by Merv. Merv might have hurt Jed’s body, but he had never quite managed to blanket her spirit in grey.

  The Jed she had first known as a homeless teenager had been dangerously close to not caring if she lived or died. Merv alone had not done that, but he’d compounded the years of neglect and abuse by her parents and stepmother.

  Nancy wished she’d been able to get a docking ring onto Jed’s father — after he’d had Jed, of course. As for the two women, who had also lacked the deepest, most essential instinct of humanity — to care for a child — well, in the old days they’d have been cast out to wander in the back gully and speared if they dared leave it. And Jed’s father could have joined them there.

  But now . . .

  ‘What’s happened?’ she asked bluntly.

  Jed flushed and bent to pat Maxi to try to hide it. ‘Fish,’ she mumbled.

  ‘What about a fish?’

  ‘She’s Kirsty’s granddaughter. Fish.’

  ‘I thought she was called Felice.’

  ‘Well, she’s called Fish now. And it suits her. She is a queer fish. And I don’t just mean her hair, which she’s dyed pink.’
>
  ‘Pink?’ Nancy blinked. A few of the old ducks in town had put blue rinses through their grey hair, but she had never seen pink hair. How on earth had the girl managed it? Surely no one made pink hair dye. Bleach and paint?

  ‘It doesn’t look as odd as you think. But she seems to have been born with no tact and an urge to drag everything out into the sunlight. She made me see I’d been . . .’ Jed shrugged. ‘Not coping.’

  An understatement, thought Nancy. ‘You aren’t supposed to cope after tragedy,’ she said mildly. ‘That’s what family and friends are for. To look after things for a while.’

  ‘I hadn’t known,’ said Jed slowly.

  No, she hadn’t, thought Nancy. How could she have? Until she settled into this district and this family, this young woman had always had to care for herself.

  ‘Blue is going to babysit Mattie for a few hours each day so I can get some things done.’

  ‘She’ll love that.’

  Jed nodded. ‘I just hadn’t realised . . .’

  ‘No need to reproach yourself. As long as things are okay now.’

  ‘Starting to be,’ said Jed carefully.

  ‘Book, book, book!’ said Mattie insistently.

  Jed reached for her daughter. ‘Nappy and food time. This kid is going to grow up to rule the universe. Come on, sweetie: it’s stewed carrots and avocado time, and then we’ll see how you go with a cup of milk. Blue says she may sleep better moving on to cow’s milk.’

  ‘Feed her meat,’ said Nancy. ‘That was the only thing that made my two monsters quiet.’

  ‘She loves lamb chops. Gums them for hours. Sucks them dry like a vampire.’

  ‘And I’d better go.’ Nancy stood. ‘I’m sorry I can’t stay longer. I need to pick the boys up from the school bus. It’ll be feeding time for the lions, then down to the river till dark. They’re building a raft.’

  ‘Wow. A good one?’

  ‘Extremely good. Solid, watertight. Of course it’s going to sink as soon as they put it in the water.’ Nancy shrugged and mirrored Jed’s grin. ‘But they can swim. And Michael and I will be there to see it launched and either cheer or rescue them as necessary. Kids become more fun as they get older. No less exhausting, but at least you get to sleep through the night.’

  At least until you begin to walk in your sleep, she thought, with no memory of what you’d done. She was worried she had even driven last night — her car was in a slightly different position this morning from the one she was sure she’d left it in yesterday.

  She had a vague memory of checking sheep who were no longer there.

  ‘A whole night’s sleep? Paradise,’ said Jed.

  ‘I’ll call in tomorrow,’ said Nancy. She tried to find words to apologise for not having been there, for not knowing how to respond to the young woman’s desperate need. Thank goodness for the unknown Fish. A strange name, but no odder than Jed or, for that matter, Nancy of the Overflow.

  ‘Take care, Jed.’ She kissed her again, no longer so head-heavy, then kissed Mattie’s cheek. Maxi came out to join them as Jed held the baby’s chubby hand up to wave goodbye to her.

  Chapter 15

  Green Bans for Gibber’s Creek?

  A group of concerned Gibber’s Creek residents demonstrated outside the council offices yesterday to protest a proposal to demolish the much loved old courthouse to make way for larger council chambers.

  Built in the late 1800s, the courthouse was one of the very first buildings built in Gibber’s Creek and its colonial charm is one of the biggest tourist attractions of the area.

  If the council is successful in its challenge to place the Courthouse on tthe Register of the National Estate, thus protefting it from demolition, the courthouse would be replaced by a large facility because, in the words of Councillor Craig Logan: ‘We need a space so that we can best serve the citizens of Gobbers Creek. We need to strategically plin the future.’

  At the time of sprinting, the Gibber’s Gazette remains unclear as to how the council are doing this, but if you have a view, we’d love to here from you. Unofficial legal opinion is ‘the council don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell’.

  Pictured holding the banner Make laws not walls! are Ms Elaine Sampson, Brocolli Bill Smith, Mr George Lee, proprietor of Lee’s Bottle Shop, and Mrs Mavis Lloyd of Murrinvar.

  FISH

  Breakfast was excellent again, with the two great-aunts in the kitchen: fruit salad and yoghurt, then home-made croissants with apricot jam. Great-Uncle Joseph was only allowed two, because of his cholesterol. Gran ate four.

  The day before had been mostly lost to chutney making: peeling tomatoes by covering them with boiling water, and stirring, stirring, stirring the big pot while the scent of cloves and vinegar spread through the house and the Greats gossiped about people she had never heard of, though Blue had vanished to sit with Sam for a while, and then to babysit in the afternoon, leaving Gran and Mah to ladle the hot and spitting chutney into jars.

  Today those jars lined the bench on a Gibber’s Creek Centenary tea towel, ready for labelling now they were cool. Time to get to work. Fish spread jam on her third croissant. ‘Who’s the oldest person in the district?’ she asked casually.

  ‘Old Mrs Lee,’ said Great-Aunt Mah promptly. ‘No one is quite sure about how old she is — she was born in China, came here as a bride. But she’s passed her century.’ She smiled. ‘Everyone thinks I’m one of the Lees. They’re a big family around here.’

  ‘Did your parents come from China?’ asked Fish enviously.

  ‘No idea. Maybe one of them. My brother and I were brought up in an orphanage. Why the interest?’

  ‘Just wondered,’ said Fish, which was entirely true.

  ‘Poor old thing,’ said Joseph. ‘Mrs Lee used to be great chums with Matilda. The family visit her regularly, but she scarcely recognises them. Thinks they’re people from her past.’

  Which sounded promising, because then she probably wouldn’t say ‘I don’t know you’ to Fish. Also ‘visiting’ sounded as if Mrs Lee was in an old people’s home, and there’d probably only be one in a place like this. Fish just needed to find it in the phone book.

  ‘You look happy,’ remarked Gran, smiling.

  Happiness faded like a dress left out in the sun. She had no right to be happy. And she wouldn’t stuff this up either.

  The phone rang. Fish froze. It might be Mum, with news of Dad. It might be Mum with no news of Dad, yelling at her again for what Fish had done to him, not apologising for what her own lies had done to both Dad and Fish, and herself too . . .

  Great-Uncle Joseph rose from the table with the habit of a country doctor who is sure any phone call at mealtimes must be for him. He was back a minute later. ‘That was Nancy,’ he said. Fish relaxed as he continued. ‘They’re bringing some of the Overflow sheep down the road to Drinkwater before the sale next week. Nancy wanted to know if Fish could give them a hand getting them in.’

  ‘Sheep? Me?’

  He nodded. ‘Could you just pop up to the gate just down from the Drinkwater driveway? You passed it yesterday. Open it and wait for the sheep. Nancy will be behind them.’

  ‘Then what do I do?’

  ‘Just stand there and don’t let the sheep get past the gate.’

  Sounded easy. And very Australian. ‘I went droving sheep,’ she could say when she got back to school. Though standing by a gate wasn’t exactly droving. Did you drove sheep, or only cattle?

  ‘Do sheep bite?’

  Joseph grinned. ‘Only grass.’

  ‘Okay then,’ said Fish in relief. ‘I thought I might go into town after that. Have a look around.’

  ‘Best place to eat is the Blue Belle,’ said Joseph. He dug out his wallet and handed her fifty dollars. ‘Buy yourself something nice at Lee’s Emporium.’

  It was too much. And she didn’t deserve ‘something nice’. ‘Is that the same Lee as Mrs Lee?’ she asked, to stop the threatening tears.

  ‘Her husband and bro
ther-in-law had a market garden, way back in the 1880s and 90s. Old Mrs Lee expanded that to a hardware store, and then added clothes, then furniture.’

  ‘She always had a great eye for fashion. She and Matilda both,’ said Blue. ‘Her granddaughter runs the stores now. You’d better get on your bike if you’re going to help with the sheep.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you,’ said Fish awkwardly.

  She wondered if they’d start talking about her as soon as she left.

  The Greats had insisted she wear a hat, offering her a neat straw one. Fish had compromised with an old one of Joseph’s, then twisted a pink scarf over it. She’d have liked to paint fish on the brim, but she hadn’t brought her fabric paint, and anyway, Great-Uncle Joseph might object.

  The gate was unmistakable. Fish unlatched it and dragged it open, then leaned against it and watched the road. No sign of sheep. Or snakes, dingoes or whatever a yowie looked like. A big bird loitered overhead, almost as if it was examining her. At last it caught a thermal and glided away. A flock of galahs chattered across the paddock, then sat in a long line on the fence, still chattering. At least Fish knew what galahs were — Di had one in a cage at home. A nice normal Australian home, with an Aussie mum and dad and three point two kids and a backyard with a barbecue . . .

  Another flock of birds flew in from somewhere over the rise. Suddenly faces appeared, woolly, trotting. Sheep, thought Fish.

  There had to be hundreds of them! All charging down the road, all making the noise that was not ‘baa’ at her. She was going to be run down by an avalanche of sheep . . .

  Except the Greats wouldn’t have put her in danger, would they? Great-Uncle Joseph said it was easy.

  Fish took a deep breath and then another one. She walked into the middle of the road as the first sheep drew near. They looked too dumb to even understand how to turn into a paddock. Fish spread her arms wide. ‘Er, shoo,’ she said.

  The sheep ignored her.

  ‘I said shoo!’ she yelled.

  The biggest sheep in front of the mob glanced at her and veered left. And suddenly, like a woolly tide, the whole mob began pouring through the gate.