He hesitates. ‘I’ve been north. Central Oz. You ever seen that country? It’s bloody amazing. I walked the Larapinta Trail.’
‘You’ve been for a hike?’ She can’t believe it. ‘Why didn’t you tell someone?’
‘I left a note.’
‘You call that a note?
Gone bush. Don’t try to find me.
What sort of note is that?’
‘I didn’t think anyone would mind,’ he says, stung. ‘What would anyone care?’
‘Well, sorry, but people do care. We’ve all been frantic. We thought you might have killed yourself or something.’
There’s silence on the phone, then, ‘That’s a bit rich.’
‘Last time I saw you in Mansfield, you were telling me how down you were. How you were worried you might be like Mum. Did you expect me to think you’d gone off for a picnic? I’ve raked the High Country trying to find you. We’ve all been going crazy with worry.’
Matt says nothing.
‘Are you all right?’ she asks, trying to stifle her rage.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Everything’s okay?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then what the hell were you thinking, disappearing like that?’
Silence again, then a measure of contrition. ‘There was no work on, and I was sitting there on my own, and saw a doco on Central Australia, so thought I’d go and do the trail. I didn’t think you lot would go off like a pack of chooks . . .’
‘What were we supposed to think? No car, no you, crap useless note . . .’
‘I’ll leave a better note next time.’
‘No, you’ll ring me next time. Then I’ll know you’re okay.’
‘Where did you go looking for me?’
‘Everywhere. The Bluff, Mount Magdala. I’ve been on a complete bloody tour of the High Country.’
‘Nice, eh?’ There’s a note of humour in his voice. ‘I gave you a good excuse to get out there.’
Abby’s not ready to joke about it yet. ‘I’m glad you’re not dead at the bottom of a cliff. You’ve no idea how many places I’ve checked, terrified I’d find your dead body. Even Brenda was upset.’
Matt scoffs. ‘I didn’t think she had any feelings.’
‘Yeah, well your days of privacy are over. Brenda’s going to take you under her wing, and Dad’s rotten with guilt for neglecting you. He’ll be proposing fishing trips every weekend.’
‘Tell them to leave me alone.’
‘
You
tell them. It’s your disappearing stunt that’s triggered it.’
‘I’ll go back to central Australia.’
‘Up to you, but there’s not too many vineyards round there. Can’t imagine what you’ll do for a job.’
‘Too hot for me anyway,’ he grunts.
‘Then it’s a roast every Sunday with Brenda. Happy days. You’ll enjoy that.’
‘I’ll tell her to piss off.’
‘I don’t think so, Matt. This is part of being in a family. You should have thought a bit more before you skived off. Now you’ll have to make it up to them.’
‘I’ve got nothing to make up to anybody.’
‘No? Well, you can start by ringing them and telling them you’re okay. And Matt?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Good luck with that.’
The four-wheel-drive trail up into the Brindabella mountains is not as rough as Daphne expected. It’s been a long time since she came this way, years and fires and roadworks have rendered the route almost unrecognisable. The government has been working to improve access since major bushfires burnt ninety per cent of the park. Now it’s almost a highway.
They are in a university vehicle and Abby is driving. She organised this trip especially for Daphne, but she had to tie it in with checking her kangaroos so she could justify the use of the four-wheel drive—she said there was no way her old Laser would make it up the trails. They also had to arrange this excursion for a weekday because the rangers don’t like vehicles going into the park on weekends when there might be hikers around; apparently cars disrupt the ambience of the bush.
Daphne is delighted to be here, of course. Pam wasn’t very happy about her coming; she thought a whole day might be too much for an old lady. But Daphne wasn’t missing out for anything. The weather is fine and cool and Daphne is determined she will enjoy every moment of it. It’s not often you get an offer like this: a chance to visit the locked-up parts of the mountains in a car.
Abby’s boyfriend is accompanying them. He had to con his boss into letting him come by saying he had a rare opportunity to access a remote part of the park. He says he’s planning to do a story about one of the historic huts, and maybe even a feature on the moon walk and the role of the satellite dish that used to stand in this valley. Daphne likes this idea, and she told him she’d be happy to share her experiences with him.
He’s sitting in the back seat with his knees under his chin. Daphne offered to let him sit in the front because of his long legs, but he insisted he was fine. He said he was looking forward to being a back-seat driver so he could deflate Abby’s cockiness about her driving skills.
Daphne is pleased to meet Abby’s boyfriend. He’s a nice young man, very solid; Abby could do a lot worse. Abby, however, doesn’t seem particularly attentive to him. Daphne wants to tell Abby that good men are few and far between, but she suspects that stating her opinion would be overstepping the mark. Abby needs to make her own decisions.
Abby looks comfortable behind the wheel—she’s such a competent young lady. Gates, gears, four-wheel drives, it all seems so easy to her. Daphne likes to see independence in a woman. When she was younger, she too was very capable. Nowadays, young women seem very limited, their interest absorbed by hair, fingernails and phones. Daphne is astounded every time she sees one of those nail parlours in the shopping mall. To her mind such places represent society gone wrong—people with too much money and no real purpose in life.
Fortunately Abby isn’t like this, which is why Daphne appreciates her. Abby has class and individual flair, natural beauty—the very best type. She’s no manicured fashion queen, but she has her own style. Daphne likes the way Abby knocks up clothes from other people’s cast-offs, dividing and combining segments to create interesting garments. She says she doesn’t do it often because she has so little time, but it’s certainly creative and a good use for discarded clothing. Abby is definitely her own person, an alluring enigma. No wonder Cameron is in love with her—Daphne sees the rich sparkle in his eyes every time he looks at Abby. He wants more, it’s obvious.
They drive up through a maze of grey trunks: mountain gums with twisted bark. Daphne remembers droving the cattle up here, using dogs and stockwhips to push the beasts away from the valley. Back then, stock work was largely men’s work, although female riders sometimes came along, like her. When a lead-cow hit the front it was easy. The cow would lower her head and nod purposefully along, drawing the other cattle with her. They would wend their way up the track—a line of black shuffling backs and flicking tails, riders following. As they ascended, grassy meadows would entice the beasts off the track to graze. While they were tearing mouthfuls of wiry grass, the riders would light a fire and put a billy on to boil for a strong cup of tea. It was best not to hurry or the cattle became unsettled and difficult to handle. Once they’d eaten their fill, they were more placid and would leave slowly and lumber up the trail with the dogs panting behind, the men further back on horses. Over a number of days, they would work their way up the contours to the river flats where the cows would slow to a crawl, grazing the green pick. As the flats spread wider, so would the beasts, intent on feeding. The riders would thin out too, following small mobs that had detached from the larger whole, so they could bring them back together again at dusk.
Usually they spent a few days on the flats, letting the stock grow fat and slow and lazy, the sheen rising in their coats. The grass was rich and lush, and when the cattle were sated, the riders would push them on again, around the flanks of Mount Bimberi and up to the summer pastures where snow gums grew twisted and contorted in the ferocious winds that shredded the plateau. On still days, the cattle roamed the tops, making their way across grazing heaven.
Abby drives up into the heart of the mountains and stops at Daphne’s favourite hut for morning tea. At the gate Cameron takes the keys, releases the padlock and lets them in so they can park in front of the building on the grass. Daphne opens the window so she can inhale the fragrant alpine air. The grass around the hut is cropped short by kangaroos and wallabies that have weaselled their way under the fence.
The hut has brick foundations and weatherboard walls—it’s been rebuilt since Daphne’s day. Back then it was a tin-roofed slab structure with thick poles for corner posts, and it provided excellent shelter, good for a night’s sleep out of the weather while droving, so long as you didn’t mind sharing with a few bush rats. Sometimes, if it was raining, the dogs would slink in for warmth.
Cameron does a quick inspection tour, and reports gas bottles around the side and evidence of a septic system. It’s a far cry from the basic facilities Daphne and the men considered luxury many years ago. She goes for a slow amble around the hut, and when she finishes her circuit, she lowers herself into a folding chair that Cameron has readied for her. Abby produces a thermos and pours tea into mugs. They sit and eat a Boston bun, the fluffy white cream sticking to their lips. Daphne hears a shrike-thrush calling in the bush. The sound of the river rises from some distance downhill.
‘Not a bad spot, is it?’ Daphne says. ‘Civilisation in the middle of nowhere.’ She’s pleased to revisit this place and share it with the young people. They must find it hard to imagine the young woman she once was, looking at her now, but to Daphne it seems not so long ago that she was last in this place. She remembers stockmen milling around the hut, horses hobbled in the clearing, the distant bellows of cattle out across the flats. If she closes her eyes, the new building is gone and the old hut is back. The bush is much the same, the mountain tops unchanged.
They finish the last of the tea and Boston bun, then Abby packs things away in a box. Daphne catches Cameron ogling the young woman’s hips. She supposes they are sexually active—Pam tells her all young people are these days. Abby is lovely, and Cameron is such a good-looking man, with his dark hair, olive skin and affable smile. But there’s something in their dynamic that’s not quite right: a simmering tension?—Daphne’s not quite sure what it is.
Back in the four-wheel drive, they retrace their route along the road above the river, a pretty watercourse, bumbling over stones and rocks. Then they turn onto the mountain trail and make their way uphill, climbing gradually through forest.
The trail is rougher and windier here, and the driving slower. Daphne wearies from holding on to the armrest as they lurch and jolt over wash-outs and gutted furrows. At times the track is steep and Abby puts the vehicle in low-four and keeps her foot steady on the accelerator while they grind uphill at a walking pace. She holds the wheel firmly and stops talking, concentrating instead on choosing the best place to direct the front wheels.
Finally they emerge from the trees onto the plateau where the land rolls in tune with the clouds. Wind scatters and fossicks among the tussocks, granite festoons the mountain tops, and ranges peel away in layers, purple and brooding, receding into the distance.
Below the walking track to one of the peaks, Abby stops the car and sets up a picnic. Cameron organises the folding chairs and helps Daphne to a seat before gathering a selection of gourmet treats on a plate for her. Daphne smiles to herself. The food is strange: marinated artichokes, chilli olives, herb bread, hummus dip, sun-dried tomatoes. The tomatoes are stiff and tough, hard work for her old teeth. She politely leaves them on the side of her plate and focuses on the more palatable morsels.
They are lucky the weather is calm up high today. On a windy day, they wouldn’t be able to sit here enjoying lunch. ‘This is granite country,’ she tells the others as she eats. ‘It’s always been my favourite place. Doug’s too. We used to ride here together. Kings above the clouds.’ She points west towards the tree line where the open country merges into bush. ‘There used to be a hut down there. Some yards too, for the horses. We camped there some years on the brumby hunt. It was a good spot. High but sheltered. We built our brumby yards down the hill a-ways and tricked the brumbies into running in. Caught ourselves some good horses that way.’
She sets down her piece of herb bread and squints across the landscape. ‘This is moth country too,’ she says. ‘Bogong moths. You can find thousands of them up here in summer. The Aborigines used to eat them—they came for miles to catch them and cook them up. It was good tucker. They used to camp in the valleys then climb the peaks for moths.’
‘Hard country to live in,’ Abby says. ‘Did you know many Aborigines? Were there many around when you were growing up?’
Daphne feels a sliver of cold creep up her back. ‘None living up here,’ she says. ‘The only Aborigine I knew was that stockman I told you about who came to work with us sometimes.’
‘That’s sad, isn’t it?’ Abby muses, staring out across the landscape. ‘Sad that they were all gone from this place. But the moths still come, I suppose—only no-one eats them anymore.’ She points to the walking track. ‘We should go up there. I’d like to see the view.’
‘You young people should go.’ Daphne says. ‘I’m happy to sit here. I can get in the car if I get cold.’
‘Are you sure?’ Abby looks concerned, but Cameron is keen—Daphne sees it in the eager way he glances at Abby, as if he could eat her up.
‘Yes, go.’ Daphne waves them away.
Abby hesitates and casts a sideways look at Cameron. But Daphne is determined the youngsters should have time up here together without her tagging along.
‘Go,’ she says again. ‘I don’t mind being on my own. And I might take a nap. You lot have worn me out.’
She watches Abby and Cameron sort themselves with water bottles and hats then start up the track. From her folding chair, she follows their progress as they work their way along the trail up into the bush, disappearing eventually among a grove of snow gums.