‘Have you been told more than you’re letting on?’
‘No.’ She rubbed her hands up and down the top of her thighs. ‘I promise. But can I please have this time?’ He could hear she was upset but disguising it. ‘It’s just you and me away from the farm, our family, and our friends, and we won’t even think about it. We won’t let it spoil our time for 48 hours, and then I’ll be ready to face whatever it is I have to face.’
‘Okay.’
He was quiet, letting the white lines in the middle of the road count the seconds, and then he asked, in a voice that was supposed to suggest a line between then and now, ‘So, how are you feeling?’
‘I feel fine, just … mortal.’
‘Fair enough.’
For a while, there was only the sound of their tyres on the blacktop and the faint whirr of the motor. The sign for the turnoff to Willi came up.
‘I’d like to keep driving for a bit, if you don’t mind. I need to let my thoughts kind of spin around in my head for a while. Maybe we could make it to Burraga?’
‘I’d like that.’ Ruthie looked at the trees in the river flicking past. She said the words to herself over and over — river, trees, water; river, trees, water — forcing everything else out of her brain.
When she felt calmer, she said, ‘I’ll ring the motel and the restaurant, and cancel.’
‘You booked the restaurant in Willi? You thought they’d be booked out.’
‘You never know.’
After the call, she asked him, ‘Were we out of our minds back there? Going to see him. Having coffee and cake with him?’
‘Completely bonkers.’
‘I can’t even tell you why I thought it would achieve anything.’
‘Was pretty insane. But I feel like it was kind of satisfying, you know?’
‘I feel the same thing.’
‘Crank that music up, would you?’
Ruthie put on a run of songs that they both knew as well as they knew any song. They sang loudly and raucously, adding every sound effect and backing vocal they could.
After they’d driven for three-quarters of an hour and it was midafternoon, Ruthie said, ‘I’ve got some ham-and-salad rolls, if you wanted to stop.’
‘Really? You have gone back in time, haven’t you?’
‘I didn’t know where we’d be at lunchtime and if there’d be anywhere to eat. Better than spending money on something greasy from a service station.’
‘As soon as we see a good spot, I’ll pull over.’
They drove for a little longer and then saw a water point for the stock route coming up in a bay off the side of the road. Dimple steered into it and found a spot under a tree, and they both got out. Stock had been removed from the route, so the area was grassy and untrampled. Dimple strolled over to the tank and the trough, stretching his legs while Ruthie repeated her morning-tea procedure.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked him after she’d unwrapped the rolls.
‘Weird. I can’t decide if we should go home and try harder, or sell up and get out. I mean, what he said was nasty, but we know he’s probably right. And if we’re going to have more droughts and bigger storms and worse frosts, what are we fighting for?’
He expected she might argue against this, but she didn’t. ‘What would we do?’
‘I don’t know. Start a business in town somewhere? Farm machinery? A tyre business? A newsagent? Buggered if I know.’
‘We would have a fair bit of capital. It would have to be on a large block, though. I can’t stand the idea of living in town, only having a cat and a dog and being a few metres from our neighbours.’
‘I’m not suggesting right now, but maybe we should be considering it as an option.’
‘We’ve always considered it, and we’ve always said no. But now I’m feeling like it’s worth more thought.’
‘Hmm. I guess we don’t want to be that couple that doggedly fights on for years and finally leaves the farm to go straight to the nursing home.’
‘No. I want to have some fun in the last years — do some interesting things, meet some fascinating people.’
‘Our friends can be fascinating.’
‘They can, but wouldn’t it be good to meet some new fascinating people? The type who don’t talk farming, or how difficult their elderly mother is, or why their renovations are so exhausting?’
Dimple sucked at his teeth and squinted at her. ‘Sounds a little bitter?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I guess so.’
They finished eating and got back into the car. This time, Ruthie drove. A sign said ‘Burraga 50’.
Dimple sat back in the seat and closed his eyes.
Ruthie asked, ‘Do you remember when we went camping with the kids when they were little and you caught that fish? It was as big as Finnie was. He couldn’t hold it up for the photo. J was heartbroken. He forced you to throw it back.’
‘I remember,’ he said without opening his eyes. ‘It would have fed us for a couple of days. There was no way I was going to let J tell me what to do, but he wasn’t going to let it happen.’
‘It’s nice when your children turn out to have hearts.’
‘It is, but J might have a bit too much.’
‘Can’t have too much.’
‘No, I suppose not. But he’s got some hard lessons to learn about how tough life can be.’
‘We spoiled them?’
‘No. We protected them from the world, for a while, like good parents should.’
‘Would you have liked to have had more?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know. I’m proud of our boys. I mean, I don’t think there’s anything missing or lacking in the family we’ve got.’
‘It makes me happy when I hear you say out loud you’re proud of Finnie.’
‘I guess my track record isn’t great, but I’m still proud of him.’
It was true there was nothing that made her happier than to hear him say it.
‘It would be nice to have grandchildren.’
‘I think you’ve got a while to wait.’
Ruth realised she had been worrying about the future in a way she hadn’t since the boys were little. Her future, in fact.
‘I wonder what the world will be like when they do arrive,’ she said.
‘Can’t be good, I guess.’
‘Do you really think that?’
‘More and more. Especially after today.’
‘Is that what the Indigenous people out here felt when the white people took over?’
‘Much, much worse, I guess.’
‘I know that. I’m not suggesting our situation is the same. Wally Oliver isn’t killing anyone. I meant the sense that the future is awful.’
‘Chilling, isn’t it? And we’re not even “small” farmers.’
‘It’s not just for farmers, though. The future looks bleak for everyone.’
The sound of her saying the words gave him a shudder of something like fear. It wasn’t a throwaway line or some idea in a discussion. She meant it. The future looks bleak for everyone. And he agreed with her.
Five
A sign announcing the limits of Burraga Shire went past. The number of houses began to increase and the gaps between them to reduce until they were quarter-acre close and then less. There were some new houses of pale brick topped by slate-grey roofs, but most of the buildings were older, the wear and tear disguised by coats of paint and neat lawns. Ruthie took them through the main street and past the Burraga Motel. It looked squat and plain and lonely.
‘Let’s try that big pub in the main drag,’ Dimple suggested, knowing what his wife was thinking. She turned the car around and went back the way they’d come.
The Plains Hotel was a two-storey red-brick building with verandahs on the s
econd floor. Ruthie parked on the street so they could check if there were any vacancies. Inside, the dark-wood furniture and timber panelling gave the impression that this was a place of substance. The décor hadn’t been upgraded recently, but Ruthie didn’t think it looked outdated.
‘This is nice,’ she said, and she could tell Dimple was pleased to hear it.
The small, thin man behind the bar said there were plenty of rooms free, so they could take their pick. When they asked him where they should have dinner, he said there was a Chinese a few doors down. ‘It’s the same as every other Chinese, so at least you know what you’re getting. The pub restaurant is open at six.’
They drove in behind the pub to the parking area and then carried their bags up the back way: a set of outdoor timber stairs to the second floor. The room was simple, with cream walls, a dark wardrobe with a large mirror in its centre, a small sink, a carpet that would have been garish if it wasn’t so faded, and a lumpy-looking double bed. There was wi-fi but no TV, and the bathroom was down the hall.
‘At least you’re not wasting any money on me,’ she said, sitting down on the bed and allowing one bounce.
‘Let’s go for a wander down the street.’
‘Like we’re on vacation? Sure. Let me change.’
The street was quiet, with cars parked at intervals along the kerb, and older people walking in isolated pairs on the footpath. Dimple and Ruthie strolled too, happily, like lovers, looking in shop windows: some of them were bare; others looked like they soon would be. The newsagent was empty except for a short, plump, grey-haired woman, who moved hurriedly from the magazine stand to the counter and back as if there was far too much work for one woman to do.
‘How’s it going?’ Dimple asked, stepping in the doorway.
‘Oh, hello.’ The woman seemed a little startled by human contact. Her hair was cut in a bob that was more like a bowl. She swivelled her head to look at Dimple briefly, and then turned back to the stack of newspapers she was bent over.
Dimple swung his body to one side and then the other as he looked around the room. ‘Nice shop. How’s business?’
The woman stood up and gave Dimple a look that asked, Are you serious? She walked back behind the counter, did something to the cash register, and said, ‘Used to be a licence to print money, this place.’ She swept the room with a glance. ‘Not now. Had it on the market for two years, hardly a nibble. Not serious ones, anyway.’
‘Same as home,’ said Dimple.
‘You’ve got a newsagency?’ The woman visibly softened.
‘No. I just mean in my local town, Fresh Well.’
‘Ah. Fresh Well.’ The woman went back to whatever interested her on the counter. ‘Dying, just like Burraga, I hear.’
‘So they say.’
‘It’s tough for the small towns. If you’re not selling something to do with agriculture, you’re in trouble.’
‘Yeah. Everything else they can get in the big towns or online,’ Dimple said.
‘The internet wiped us out,’ the woman said, continuing down an obviously well-worn track. ‘Magazines and newspapers, paper, pens, and pencils — even lottery tickets — aren’t wanted as much anymore. And if you don’t come in to buy a newspaper, you don’t buy the little something else that you used to: a drink, a card, a chocolate bar, a toy …’ She slapped her hands down hard on the countertop, and then picked up a pile of paperwork. ‘Which, of course, was the cream.’ She put the pile down, turned to Ruthie, and said, ‘But enough of that. What are you guys doing in town?’
‘Just travelling through. Stopped off for the night.’
‘Stopped off in Burraga? Interesting choice.’ She was suddenly playful. ‘People don’t normally stop off in Burraga unless they have family here, or work, or they’ve got no other choice. What’s your excuse?’ She leant back against the wall behind her and folded her round arms.
‘We visited a guy up near Willi and we didn’t like him much, so we thought we’d drive on a bit, but we weren’t quite ready to go home. So, Burraga.’ As Ruthie said this, Dimple imagined her saying it about a beach town or a village in France.
‘I hope you enjoy your stay. Are you at the motel?’
‘No. Just up the street at the pub. We thought the motel looked a little … isolated.’
‘I know what you mean, and you’re right. It’s like they’re hoping no humans will turn up. The food at the pub is good, but you’ll get the young cockies tonight, and that will probably ruin it for you.’
‘Why’s that?’ Dimple asked, pretty sure he knew the answer.
‘Oh, they’re nice-enough kids. Polite most of the time, and friendly, but they’re so entitled. They drive these utes that cost more than my house, and if your farm isn’t the size of Scotland, they think there’s something wrong with you. They don’t boast about lifestyle things like travel or houses or whatever, but if it’s not big they don’t want anything to do with it: big farms, big machinery, big turnover.’
‘Don’t worry, we’re used to that,’ Ruthie said breezily, although they really weren’t.
‘In Fresh Well?’ the woman asked, disbelieving.
‘Yeah. Sure,’ Dimple said.
‘I don’t think you get what I mean.’ She glared at them. ‘There won’t be a single child there whose family isn’t worth $15 million. Not a single one. Most will be worth more, and some of them a lot more.’
‘Is that so?’ Ruthie said politely.
‘I can see you don’t believe me, but it’s true. And they don’t want to buy a newsagency. I can tell you that for free.’ The woman left the counter and went back to doing whatever it was she had been doing.
Ruthie and Dimple exited the shop and continued down the street.
‘Do you think we’ll meet someone who isn’t opinionated on this trip?’ Ruthie asked with a straight face, looking at the empty street in front of her.
‘Doesn’t seem likely.’
‘Do you think our children are entitled ?’
‘Probably. But I hope not.’
‘What would they be entitled to?’
‘Extremely good question. I’m thinking a kick up the bum if they’re carrying on like that.’
There was an empty shop to their left. A sign that said ‘Helena’s Boutique’ was half torn away from the window. Inside, it looked like someone had taken the things that had some value and left everything else. Next door there was an office of a stock-and-station agent that looked neat and well organised, and next to that was an accountant’s office with windows too dark to see through. Ruthie put her hand in Dimple’s, and he didn’t shake it away like he normally would. It made Ruthie smile.
‘I can’t stop thinking about those Aboriginals on the river and those that must have lived around our place. I always thought they just died because of the common cold or smallpox or something, but some of them had to have been hunted and shot.’
‘No one wrote that sort of thing down — for practical reasons, I guess. I’ve never thought about it, either. Strange, isn’t it? And convenient.’
‘We’ve deliberately ignored history. All of us. Together. We’re all in on it. And I never even thought about it.’
‘It isn’t good to know the country you love and work on was originally stolen from someone. I’m guessing they didn’t have to pay the government much when they got hold of it, either.’
‘You remember when you were at school and you read about totalitarian states fiddling around with history, erasing it or rewriting it, and you were so shocked? It was so hard to believe?’
Dimple nodded.
After a few silent paces, Ruthie said, ‘I need to think about something else. Let’s see: I like the way they’ve kept the timber and corrugated-iron awnings at the front of the shops.’
‘Except it gives it the look of a ghost town in a Western, a town called Dry
Gulch or something, with tumbleweeds blowing through the dusty main street.’
‘That’s just silly. The place looks pretty — the trees they’ve put in on both sides, the little garden beds at the pedestrian crossing, the fresh paint on the shops that are still going.’
‘You’re right.’
The main street seemed to go on forever, and they kept walking, wondering what might turn up next. Neither asked the other if they should keep going or if there was something they particularly wanted to see. Eventually, the houses thinned out and a silo complex marked the end of the town. They turned back.
Ruthie took out her phone and waved it around. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen on Facebook that Jilly Furner lives in Burraga. You remember her, don’t you?’
‘I do.’
‘Her kids were the same age as ours. We got to know each other well back in those times. I thought I might give her a call — see if she wants to come and have a drink.’
‘Okay. What was her husband’s name? Greg? Yeah, it was Greg. Good bloke. Bit a of a machinery whizz.’
Ruthie put the phone to her ear. ‘Oh, hi, Jilly. It’s Ruthie Travers. How are you?’
Dimple listened to their excited reconnection. There were things women did in relationships that he would never understand: the need to over-egg, the desperation to be nice — until they weren’t. It was possible that women were nastier than men, except they didn’t usually kill anybody. It was an argument loser. When you were as evil as some men were, everything else was insignificant.
‘She’s just at home — in town. She said she’d come down and say hello.’
Dimple checked his phone and said, ‘Be time for a drink when we get back. We’ve timed it beautifully.’
‘I think she and Greg split. Someone said that, but I never heard for sure. Do you remember?’
‘No idea. They’ve been gone a long while.’
A truck came past — too large for the street, too fast for the road.
‘Did you ever want to have an affair with anyone?’ Ruthie asked casually.
‘You think Greg did?’
‘No. I was just wondering what you thought.’
‘That’s kind of the most dangerous question, isn’t it?’
Small Mercies Page 6