It was so long since they’d been anywhere except into town or Stony Creek that she had to make sure they still had a toiletry bag, and if they did, that it wasn’t mouldy and torn. She got down on her hands and knees, and reached into the back of the bathroom vanity where the toiletry bags should have been. She found one, and extracted it. It was plastic and flowery, and probably not fit to be seen. She couldn’t think who it had belonged to, who would own such an ugly thing. But it was clean, and free of anything like mould. She stood up, put it on the side of the sink, and then decided, as almost always, that vigilance was the price of peace, and proceeded to wash it out with hot water. Then she upended it to dry next to the sink.
When Dimple came in that night, his first comment was, ‘I think we’ll be right to leave around eight tomorrow. How’s that sound?’
‘Great. I’m all organised. Bags packed. Clothes sorted. Yours, too.’
‘I rang Barney. He’s going to feed tomorrow morning for me. And check on the dogs and the chooks.’
‘What for?’
‘Just in case we decide to stay an extra night.’ He wasn’t sure what response to expect. She might be annoyed. Ruthie hated asking neighbours for favours.
‘What a nice idea. Maybe we could get a meal other than Chinese.’
‘Burgers? Service-station pie?’
‘So you’re looking forward to it, then?’
‘You know, I just might be. I never liked Wally’s old man. Ian bloody Oliver. Always very pleased with himself. I heard him say, once, to a woman in a shop who was giving him trouble, “Do you know who I am?”’
‘Where did you know him from? I don’t remember him at all.’
‘Went to ag college with him. Played football with him and against him. Then saw him about at field days and crop-research trips.’
‘So you’ve got history with this family?’
‘Not really. I never crossed him, or anything. He was the sort of fella who only remembered my name if he needed something.’
‘Was?’
‘Died about five years ago. Some sort of cancer.’
‘Oh.’ Not thinking about it. Remember: not thinking about it. ‘Now I feel sorry for him.’
‘If he’s anything like his dad, you won’t feel it for long.’
Dimple was up before first light. Not because he needed to be, but because he was restless and concerned the cows might not be right. He needed to see them as soon as he could to make sure there was nothing to worry about and that he hadn’t missed any cows in trouble.
‘You can’t see anything in the dark, you know,’ Ruthie said from the bed, over her blanketed shoulder, as he pulled on his clothes.
‘Be light soon enough.’ Cereal and a cup of tea would fill in the wait. He left the bedroom, but she didn’t say any more.
He turned on a low light in the kitchen and placed his bowl and the cereal container soundlessly on the bench. When he’d poured the milk, he took a seat and began to scoop the cereal into his mouth.
Are we really going to do this? he asked himself between mouthfuls. Hi, Wally. We wanted to talk to you about some things you said on the radio that we thought were unfair. And we wanted to tell you you’re a fuckwit. He tried to picture it. Maybe they’d catch him at his massive machinery sheds full of shiny equipment worth millions of dollars. Or they’d call him and he’d agree to meet them at his front ramp — neutral territory, as it were. Or perhaps he’d invite them in for a cup of tea and a chat about the state of agriculture and the way forward. It was madness. Even more obviously so as the sun sent its first minions running out across the sky. Dimple would play along and then discourage her when they got there. Did she really want to do this? Did she expect Wally to listen politely? Maybe they could go for a picnic or something instead. There was a big river out there — at least, it was big sometimes. He could use it to distract Ruthie, suggesting a glass of wine while they stretched out underneath an ancient river gum. Cunning as a shit-house rat — that was Dimple Travers.
He rinsed his bowl in the sink, decided against tea, and went out the back door into the fresh, clean morning.
There was no evidence that any of the other cows were unwell. He drove around them twice, stood up any sitting cows, and woke snoozing calves. Even 3027 looked fine. If there was ever a time to go, it was now.
Barney turned up at seven, and Dimple ran him through the procedures, and the trick with starting the tractor, and the shed where the dog biscuits and chook feed were held.
‘I was thinking the wife and I might get away in about three weeks’ time,’ Barney said when they were finished. ‘If that fits in with you.’
‘Shouldn’t be a problem. We can set the dates when I get back.’
He waved his neighbour off, feeling like he’d been smart and maybe even a bit sensitive to Ruthie’s needs — whatever they might be.
When he got back to the house, Ruthie was dressed, her hair dry, ready to go.
‘It’s only 7.30. You’re cranking the pressure up,’ he said.
‘No. I had a shower and put on some nice clothes so I wouldn’t start doing any jobs around the house. I’m on holidays.’
He could feel himself grinning. There was joy, unexpected, in this strange outing.
‘Right. I’ll be quick. I want to be on holidays too.’
He moved quickly towards the shower, her laughter the sweet peep of a butcherbird around him.
And then they were sitting in the car looking at each other, giggling — young lovers on their first trip away together.
She smiled at him and said, ‘Don’t say, “Here we go then,” will you?’ It was the sort of thing both their fathers had said.
‘Wouldn’t dare.’
He drove out of their garden and along their entrance road, unable to steady the little waves of elation. Even if they turned back five kilometres from home, it was worth it.
Ruthie saw her husband’s stupid pleasure, and knew why she was still with him. They shared a sense of things.
After half an hour, she said, ‘I brought a thermos and some biscuits.’
‘You did not.’ Their private joke put light in his eyes.
‘I did. Baked especially. You didn’t smell them?’
‘Oh, yes. I forgot. When the cow … Anyway.’
The generation before them had taken their thermoses and sandwiches and biscuits with them on long trips. Before coffee became a widespread religion, the travellers would stop on the side of the road for a break and some refreshments. Ruthie and Dimple had always seen this as quaint and dated — the self-sufficiency and thriftiness of the ones who’d gone before. The possibility of the practice had become a currency between them when they started taking the long trips to see their children in the city. Now he was impressed by the thought she had put into their trip.
‘Is it for morning tea or afternoon?’
‘I thought we’d stop near our destination and make sure everything was right, have a break, and get ourselves ready. Maybe talk through our strategy.’
‘I was thinking we’d be diplomatic. Point out to him that what he said might tip some people over the edge. Real people on real farms. Tell him we get his argument, but that he needs to show some care for his fellow farmers.’
‘That’s roughly what I was thinking. But if he ignores me, I can’t guarantee I’ll be nice.’
When they passed their first town without stopping, she asked, ‘Do you want to use the GPS for directions?’
‘Nah. Let’s just wing it.’
She liked the response.
‘You know he mightn’t even be home? Could be on a tractor or on another one of their places or something?’
‘Of course. But I need to do it. If we can’t see him, I’ll drop a letter in his mailbox. Is he married?’
‘Apparently. Letter?’
&nbs
p; ‘Yes. I wrote one. Not quite finished.’
‘You are serious.’
‘I am.’
On the side of the road, the grass was green from the water that ran off the tar, but the paddocks that stretched away from the road were dry and brown.
She took out her phone and plugged it in. ‘Time for a bit of music.’
He nodded, not really paying attention.
‘I made a list.’
A song from the 1980s began to lilt and thump out of the audio.
Dimple grinned. A favourite.
She was girlish now. ‘It’s so easy these days, isn’t it? Remember the hours you had to put in to make a favourites mixtape on a cassette?’
This made him laugh out loud and slap a hand on the steering wheel. ‘I never got the hang of it. I’d get halfway through and give up. No one ever let me make the party tape, because it would only have five songs on it.’
‘I was the expert. I made them for friends as presents, for parties, everything. There’s probably still one in the bottom of the cupboard somewhere.’
‘What’s on this one?’
‘Mostly oldies. Everything we like.’
They listened and hummed, and half-sang the words.
‘Perhaps we should keep driving. Take a turn and head to the coast. Get an agent to sell the cattle and then the farm, and never go home. Start afresh. We’d only need a small house. Maybe even choose one we could renovate,’ Dimple said.
She was silent, letting herself indulge a holiday pleasure: fantasising about never going home; about the alternate lives you might live that you knew you wouldn’t. Before they knew it, they’d be buying wines they were sure they liked, pretending they wouldn’t taste awful at home.
Ruthie looked out the window as the country began to flatten. There was the occasional green paddock, but mostly it was parched and ‘stricken’.
If treatment does not occur, breast cancer will usually spread to other areas of the body …
‘Are we really this desperate?’ she asked, her faced turned to the landscape.
‘Sorry?’ Dimple was in his own blissful world without chores to do, machinery to fix, and cattle to care for.
‘Can we be this excited over one night away? Maybe it’s just me.’
‘No. I’m excited. Like a kid. Like I’m taking my first boogie board to the beach. Remember that?’ He gave a deep sigh. ‘I guess we’ve left it too long. Didn’t realise. Didn’t want to think about it, I suppose.’
‘And it’s not even a holiday. It’s a social-justice thing. A mission to set the slate right.’
‘I didn’t realise. I suddenly feel significant. A bit super. Maybe I could get a cape or something? Undies outside my pants?’
‘You can wear what you like. But I wouldn’t say picking clothes for yourself was your strong suit.’ She turned the music down and put on the news.
The horizon receded as the country started to flatten out. There was no green on the side of the road here. In places, there were bright-green crops in circles under centre pivots. The fresh, thick crops in an almost moonscape gave the sense of science fiction.
‘Always hard to like an irrigator,’ Dimple said, and meant it.
‘You’d do it if you could.’
‘Probably.’
In the distance, the river, lined tightly with trees, wove into view, like a green seam in a beige fabric.
‘Hope they left some water in it for the cattle and sheep blokes downriver,’ Dimple said.
‘Is it the same river the Olivers live on?’
‘Yep. Except another one joins it in the meantime. Gives them even more water.’
She didn’t say anything, not wishing to get him worked up over water. As some American had said, ‘Whiskey’s for drinking; water’s for fighting.’ She wasn’t here for that. Water was a whole ’nother world of dispute.
The river had seemed close, but it took some time for its steep banks to appear alongside them. She couldn’t see the water. If it was there, it was at the bottom of a canyon.
Would they remove her breast, she suddenly thought. Mastectomy. The word was as ugly as the thought. But it wasn’t a big price to pay for life, was it? She knew she could deal with it if she had to. Have a reconstruction if she couldn’t. It was the sort of vanity she had never approved of. She would feel ridiculous. Anyway, she was not supposed to be thinking about that. Any of it.
Then, after travelling through a long stretch of the flattest country and alongside a river with unseen water, Dimple pointed out where another river cut across from the plain and joined the first. They crossed a large bridge, and then the new river was on their left as they sped north. She could see the water now, wide, probably deep and not quite brown. It was a nice sight.
‘We’re probably only 20 kilometres away. Do you want to stop for that coffee?’
‘Sure.’
He waited until there was a flat, open section between the road and the river, and guided the car in. They both got out. The temperature was surprisingly pleasant. The sky was blue, supporting a few drifting, pointless clouds. Ruthie opened the back of the car and took the thermos, two cups, and the biscuit tin out of the esky. She poured their coffees, added sugar to his, and handed his to him. They sat together on the back, above the bumper, their feet on the ground, looking down at the water. She offered him a biscuit, and he said, ‘Yum,’ took one, and bit into it. ‘Bloody good. You made them chewy. The way I like them.’
‘I look after you.’
‘You do. And I am thankful.’ It was only a game.
They drank and ate and allowed nothing in between them.
Then he asked, ‘Do you still want to see this guy?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Are you scared?’
‘Embarrassed maybe.’
‘Embarrassed? By me?’
‘No. By turning up unannounced, not even knowing if he’s there, not certain that he’ll do anything except have us kicked off the place.’
‘Okay. For me, it’s like this.’ She slumped a little. ‘All these big farmers believe in survival of the fittest because they think they’re the fittest, when really they’re simply the fattest. They can stand to lose a bit of lard. They’re as bad as the banks, and the companies that own the old peoples’ homes, and the bloody politicians, and all the rest of them at the big end of town.’
She paused. Her voice was wobbling a little bit, and her face was flushed. ‘Someone has to say to their face that they’re wrong. That they can’t hide from the people they care so little about. So I need to do that.’ She placed the last six words very deliberately. ‘Even if it’s embarrassing. Even if he gives us the shortest shrift possible. I need to do it.’
‘Then I’m with you. I needed to hear that you were serious. Now that I know, I’ve got no problems. Full steam ahead.’
He smiled at her, and she looked away, unwilling for him to see how little she could control the emotion. He threw the dregs of his coffee on the ground and got up. ‘It’s nearly twelve. I’m guessing he has lunch around the same time as everyone else, so let’s not waste any time.’
She put the things away, and they got back into the car, and he spun the wheels in the soft dirt to let her know his blood was up and that he was ready for action.
Four
A bend in the road directed them to the huge timber entrance of Lakeland Farms. There was a broad ramp with timber post-and-panel either side, and timber double gates in the next section of the construction. A sign said: ‘No entry without authorisation. Visitors please contact management.’ Alongside it was a communications box on a post that looked better suited to a government facility.
They looked at each other. Ruthie did not show any sign of retreat, so he pulled the car in close to the box, leant out his
window, pushed a button, and said, ‘Dillon and Ruth Travers here to see Wally Oliver.’
He sat back. There was no response. They waited. Dimple said, ‘Should I try again?’
Ruthie was about to say yes when she noticed a vehicle coming towards them across the paddock. It was a large white ute, tricked up with aerials and chrome, and huge knobbly tyres, moving fast and kicking dust behind it. She pointed at it, and Dimple followed her finger.
‘Do you think we could get security like this?’ he asked.
She didn’t reply because the ute had crossed the table drain onto the road and was almost at the ramp. Then it was alongside their car. Inside was a young man, bronze-faced, in a big hat and a clean blue shirt. He didn’t get out of his vehicle; he just wound down the window and said, ‘Hi. You’ve got an appointment with Mr Oliver?’ in a flat security guard’s voice. Dimple could see he had the words ‘Lakeland Farms’ embroidered on his pocket.
‘No. We just wanted to talk to him.’
‘You from the media?’ He was stern now. Nothing worse in the world than the media.
‘No. We’re farmers.’
‘Dimple?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Scott. Scott Frazer. I used to work at the O’Toole’s down near you?’ Suddenly the man was relaxed, even boyish, getting out of his car to shake Dimple’s hand.
‘Scott? Good to see you. How’ve you been? Sorry, I didn’t recognise you in the big hat.’
He grinned goofily and adjusted the headwear. ‘Comes with the territory.’
‘You remember my wife, Ruthie?’
Ruthie leant across and gave a little wave.
Small Mercies Page 4