Texas (3 page)

‘It was just a simple question.'

‘Can you hand me Ollie's towel?'

The flywire door of the house banged shut behind him. She could have said they were his children too but she didn't.

She returned to the kitchen with the boys, fresh and pink, smelling of Velvet soap. He was at the table, looking at paperwork.

‘You haven't cleaned the bathroom,' he said without looking up.

‘No.'

She sat the children on chairs at the table. Ollie immediately stood on his and lunged towards his father's papers, tearing a corner from one of them. He gathered up his reading material and walked out of the room, leaving her to deal with the children.

He returned to the kitchen when the room was empty, sitting at the end of the table without speaking. She moved in the same way she always did: from the bench to the table to the stove to the sink to the table, then sat down. He'd already started.

‘Is there any salt?'

Texas She pushed her chair backwards, got up and walked to the pantry. She placed the big red and white plastic salt container in front of him and sat down again. She ate without noticing the taste. A moth flew into the light and the smell of its burnt body filled the room.

‘Not too bad here. What do you reckon?' He placed his knife and fork carefully together on his plate and looked at her.

‘Mmm.' She stared into her stew.

When he turned away, she watched him. She had married a bland-looking man but she supposed some would say he was nice-looking. His dark hair was freshly washed and combed. He wore a flannelette shirt, with a creased collar, and he must have found his old tracksuit pants. The clothes were familiar. He leant back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.

‘It's going to be a big muster this year,' he said with some satisfaction.

She stood up and began clearing the table. He stood up too.

‘Here, love, let me help.'

He took his plate to the sink and returned to his seat. Her back was to him as she filled the sink with hot water and began washing the dishes.

‘You know,' she said, ‘it's three years today since Mum died.'

Her mother had died on the tenth of May, 1982. She looked over her shoulder at him. He frowned and slammed the tobacco tin on the table.

‘Jesus!' he said crossly. ‘I can't believe you're still carrying on about the past. What's happened's happened. Got to get on with it.'

She stared into the soap suds, her world narrowing to the width of the sink, feeling the bits of food swirl around her hands in the warm water. She heard the door slam as he left the room and it rattled the louvres.

The edges of the window blurred and suddenly she could see the cluster of thin-limbed trees on the farm. They were like a forest even though you could see through them to the paddock on the other side. She and her brother thought there might have been a faraway tree. But once you were in the middle of that lonely stand of mallees it was clear there was no other tree of substance. They found sticks which they rode like ponies, whipping them faster with long strips of bark, leaping over the long grass and the lumpy mounds that were rabbit burrows or which perhaps hid a snake. The wind whispered the leaves and shook the tops and rolled them about. But it was always quiet below and when they were tired of galloping they lay down, panting and watching ants trickle over the leaves and along winding narrow paths. She remembered a beetle with black and yellow stripes being carried by an ant. Gradually the flies would whine more loudly and they would escape behind the flywire door of the small fibro cottage built by her grandfather and father.

Not long after she met John she'd taken him to meet her mother's parents. They'd retired to a leafy riverside suburb in the city after selling the farm that had been one of the oldest in the State. Her grandparents were pleased to discover they knew of the station in the Kimberley that John's family had once owned but somehow lost. She couldn't remember the

Texas story or understand why she even thought of it now. John had found her father much harder to please. Her father's family had been running Collinsville-blood sheep on the edge of the Wheatbelt for about thirty years. They were hardy, robust animals with a good wool yield. It was her father's idea to run fewer sheep and still fill the wool bales. No one could ever persuade him to increase his stocking rates. He wanted to be prepared in case of a drought. Her father never said anything critical about John but she remembered there was sometimes a look that came over his face when John was talking about cattle. When that happened she'd try to change the subject. She didn't want John to notice that her father didn't support his ideas. How stupid she'd been, worrying about John. She placed the dishes on the bench to drain, watching the suds slide off into the sink. He never wanted to know what she was thinking. Despair settled thickly across her shoulders.

III

The nights had suddenly gone from being mild to cold. A brittle wind blew every morning across the flat, making her eyes water and nose run when she stood at the edge of the lawn. She would look out towards the hills, watching the bleached grass ripple as though it were solid like water. A stray cow might bellow and a dingo might howl from somewhere out there. By mid-morning the wind would have dropped, the sun would be strong and the light would have washed out the colour of the earth. By then she would have been up for six hours. She always started before dawn because that was when John wanted breakfast. Sometimes he'd drive out to where the men were mustering, but most of the time he went with the bore mechanic to learn where there was water. Half a million acres, much of it stony country where rangy cattle clustered in small mobs. They were wily beasts, difficult to muster, and the terrain was hard on the horses. That's what he told her when he came home at night.

Susannah looked down at the diary left behind by the previous manager. John had been studying it over breakfast. It told him where cattle had been found last year, how many head had been sold and where they'd gone. The men's wages were listed at the back. She hadn't seen any of the stockmen yet, only Gerry now and then. They were still out at the camp. Before John left this morning he told her there was a cattle truck coming. The driver would drop off some fruit and vegetables from the co-op in town. Then the truck was to continue out to the yards to pick up some bullocks for the meatworks. At least there would be a change in the routine.

John had used the Flying Doctor radio, a thin metal box with black knobs which sat at the end of the bench in the kitchen. Static crackled and then there was a sound like a sigh breathed into the microphone. But other than that it was silent.

She hadn't told John she didn't know how it worked. She turned the knob marked
channel
. It clicked heavily into the next slot.

A woman's voice spoke loudly through a whining, celestial noise.

Texas ‘She said she'd manage. There was nothing more I could do for her. Over.'

More static before the woman replied.

‘Yeah. He took her to the races. What more could you ask? Over.'

She clicked onto the next channel. It was a male voice.

‘To be picked up Monday. Over.'

Back to the woman.

‘Knew when she didn't come on that she was gone. Wouldn't go to hospital. Had the men to look after, she said. They sent out the plane to pick her up. But it was too late. Over.'

Crackle.

‘Yeah. Don't know how he'll cope. Or the kids. Over.'

She switched it back to the other channel and moved across to the other side of the kitchen. She gathered up the papers and the diary and returned them to the old table that was pushed against the wall in the sleep-out. John was using it as a desk.

A truck rumbled over the cattle grid into the station paddock. She stood at the edge of the veranda as the boys tore across the yard. Dust caught up with the vehicle as it stopped. A hand swung the door closed and a man in a blue shearer's singlet and stubbies emerged from behind it. He pushed his hat further back on his head. She was at the fence with the children.

‘I have the map. My husband said the cattle are at number eight yards. He said to follow this race.' She pointed to the stony track that led away from the homestead. It wound around the work sheds and the homestead yards and down towards a creek.

On the other side of the creek was a wire gate. The track continued over the hill. ‘You need to go through that gate and then follow the map after that.'

‘I know it,' he said.

He was looking at her instead of where she was pointing.

Ollie was trying to escape through the fence. She let him go, gritting her teeth. Ned pulled to go after him. She gave up on both of them, conscious of the man watching her. The children crawled through the fence.

‘Come back. Not outside the yard,' she said weakly.

‘Where do you want this stuff?' asked the driver.

‘I'll show you.' She spoke over her shoulder.

They reached the step up to the veranda.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?' Her face reddened. It would be rude not to offer.

‘The cattle won't be ready,' he said, following her into the kitchen.

She moved awkwardly, aware of him behind her. He set the stores down by the cupboard. The kettle had boiled a little while ago. He pulled out a chair. Through the louvres she could see the boys playing in the dirt beside the truck. The fan creaked above her head. Red brown hair coiled moistly above the neckline of his faded singlet. He seemed vaguely amused about something.

‘How's your old man doing?'

She looked blankly then realised he was referring to John.

‘Fine. I think.'

Texas ‘He was up here before, wasn't he?' He paused, watching. ‘That's what he said.'

‘Oh, did he? Yes I think so. Before we were married.'

She wondered why she lied. There was something about his manner which irritated her. She straightened her shoulders. He leant back in his chair, smiling.

‘He thinks he knows this country. He's just had a taste of it. That's all.'

She brought the mug of tea up to her mouth and swallowed noisily.

‘Have you always been a truck driver?'

He moved in his chair, leaning forward as though to get up, but settled back in it again.

‘Done all sorts. Carting cattle, ringing, horsebreaking.' He looked into his mug. ‘It isn't the same now. Too many cowboys.'

‘What do you mean?' she asked.

‘They were ringers back then.' He seemed to be talking to himself. ‘Now you wouldn't pass the time of day with any of them.'

He looked out the window. There was a long pause. A cricket started up in the corner. She would look for it when he was gone.

‘You know things have happened up here. Things you lot know nothing about.'

He folded his arms and crossed his ankles. She couldn't contain herself.

‘What?'

He looked at her and shook his head slightly.

‘Nah,' he muttered. Not telling.

‘I don't know anything about this country.'

She was pleading. His eyes narrowed. She was stripped bare.

‘You see them old yards by the turnoff from the main road?'

She nodded.

‘There are yards like that about every ten mile or so through this country. You don't know how they got there, do you?' He was waiting for her to react but when she didn't he continued.

‘Blackfellas,' he said. ‘They cut em, eh? Big solid trees you get down by the creeks. They dragged them one by one behind donkeys. They'd dig a big hole, same height as you. And if they got it wrong they'd have to sit there for twelve hours, no dinner, nothing. And if they moved they got shot.'

The fan whirled lazily above them, clunking when it caught momentarily at the same point on its rotation. His chair scraped the floor as he pushed it backwards. Suddenly she noticed one of her children had disappeared. She stood up quickly, knocking her hip against the table. She pushed open the flyscreen door, banging it loudly against the wall as it swung wide. She reached the truck to find Ollie hanging off the back of it.

‘Naughty, naughty boy!' she shrieked, pulling him down.

Ollie screamed and tried to kick her stomach. When she turned around to carry him back to the house the driver was at the door of his truck. Corellas screeched overhead, flying as a white cloud against a deep sky. They dispersed and settled in the trees down by the creek.

Texas ‘Hey young fella, you want a ride in the truck?'

Ollie stopped struggling and looked at him, angry and distrustful. She shifted him around onto her hip. Ned was hanging on to one of her legs.

‘Oh no, I couldn't . . .' Her voiced trailed off, panic-stricken and embarrassed.

‘Your old man's out there? He'll bring them back.'

No. Why couldn't she say it? She seemed to have lost the ability to stand up for herself, for her children.

‘I'll come with you,' she muttered without looking at him.

He shrugged and swung up into the cab. Ollie was snuffling into her neck. She handed him to the driver and then went around the other side. She opened the door and lifted Ned onto the seat and hauled herself up. Ollie clung to the truck driver's shoulder while Ned shuffled his bottom towards the edge of the seat, little legs dangling near the gearstick and hands holding on to the two-way radio that was attached below the windscreen in front of him. Both were solemn. She slid onto the vinyl seat, scratching her legs where there was a tear in the upholstery. He turned the key and the engine vibrated thickly. They lurched down a small slope and over dusty potholes that marked the track, chains rattling in the back. Beside the work sheds were disused vehicles with wheels missing and bonnets raised. A blackened exhaust poked out the side of the generator shed. Between the sheds was a lean-to of timber and corrugated iron attached to an old caravan. A skinny old man in a sleeveless dark shirt stood in front of it, watching them as they drove past.