As Far as You Can Go (33 page)

‘What do you think this is?’ she says. He turns, can’t see properly, the sun dazzles making after-images in his eyes. Limps back a bit, doesn’t want to walk back, only forwards. She’s got her hand on a post, a bit of rusty wire trailing from it. ‘There’s another,’ she points, ‘we’ve walked past quite a few. A fence?’

A fence
– and he walked straight past and didn’t see. What sort of a state is that to get in? He tries to pull himself together. And now he looks there is something to the far right of them. Could have
missed
it. Distant, miles away still maybe, hard to tell, something that could be buildings, trees. Little water left in his bottle now but he takes a sip. Maybe a station? Maybe a place of safety, water, food and bed.

‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’ Cassie says. Sounds like she’s got a sore throat. He puts his arms round her and they hug weakly. She pulls away. ‘Let’s have a mint to celebrate.’

They walk towards the huddle with slightly renewed vigour. The sweet leaks sugar into Graham’s blood. If only his foot didn’t sting like buggery, but soon he’ll be soaking it in a bowl of water. A kind woman will bring him a cold beer. They can shower, or maybe there’ll even be a pool. And then later food, roast meat or stew. Gallons of icy beer. A soft cool bed.

They walk side by side now, speaking little, searching as they approach. A pump comes into view beside a stand of trees. ‘Gray.’ Cassie stops. ‘You don’t think –’

‘What?’

‘It’s not Woolagong, is it?’

‘Nah.’ His heart gives a sickly beat in his throat. ‘Course not.’

They proceed a bit more slowly. It
can’t
be Woolagong, there should be two pumps – but which direction would they be coming from? If it was, he couldn’t bear the look of pure ecstatic smarm on Larry’s face.
Can’t
be. But at least there would be a bed to lie on, fresh water, beer and grub. He grits his teeth against the pain in his heel, scrambles his brain trying to work something out from the sun’s direction. But it’s no good, that part of his head is burnt out.

‘What would we do?’ she says.

‘It’s
not.

‘But if? I know,’ she grabs his arm, ‘we could creep back to our bed and rest. He wouldn’t know – and then –’ she trails off.

‘It’s not!’ he says, shaking off her arm. He can see it now, the whole layout is wrong, the whole lie of the land, type of bush, it’s smaller altogether, not the same place at all, nothing like. Her hand flies to her heart. Under the sunburn and dust and freckles she looks pale.

‘Drink some water,’ he says.

‘What shall we say when we get there?’ She swigs. ‘Nearly gone, still it’s OK now, isn’t it?’ She finishes it and wipes her mouth, her lips pink and wet where the dust’s washed off. Looks at her watch. ‘Five past four,’ she says. ‘Just in time for tea!’

‘Come on.’ He limps off towards the station. More signs of civilisation – posts, rusty bits of machinery, a broken-down shed. The deafening drone of flies. But no livestock in sight, no cars, voices. There is movement, he sees, the pump turning. But his optimism wanes the closer they get, visions of kind women
and cold beer evaporating. It is a ruin. The wreck of a station. Some trees – the most beautiful gums, startling white and green, alive with birds, a fantastic freshness for the eyes – but otherwise nothing. No house, no people, just piles of old sun-silvered timber, corrugated iron, a couple of wrecked utes.

But there is something. As they walk amongst the wreckage they hear, smell, see it together, a splash of water – water spouting intermittently into an overflow tank open to the sky, as the breeze drives round the pump. They hurry over: the galvanised tank is deep with greenish water, floating with small dead things.

‘Think it’s OK to drink?’ Cassie says.

‘No choice.’ Graham dips his finger in the tepid water and licks. ‘Not salty, anyway.’

‘If we catch the next gush,’ she says, unscrewing her water bottle. ‘That’ll be OK.’

He eases the bloodstained sock off his foot, tiny fibres of cotton sticking on the raw place.

‘Ouch.’
Cassie winces for him.

He strips, gets hold of the edge of the tank, hauls himself up and drops in. It is lukewarm, thickish and mushy at the bottom. But still, the sensation of water all over his body. Just don’t look too hard.

‘Come on,’ he says, ‘it’ll do you good.’

‘But –’ She frowns at the bobbing mass of insects, feathers, slime and God knows what else. ‘I’ll just sit on the edge and wash.’ She strips off her clothes, climbs up, lets her feet dangle into the water. The middle part of her is blinding white, almost blue against the tan of her legs and arms and face; her nipples a couple of soft pink flowers. She reaches down and scoops water, rubs it under her arms.

Graham dips his head under to get rid of the cloud of flies, then comes up bubbling, tugs her foot and she slips in and right under, her hair streaming out, releasing a fuzz of bubbles.

‘You pig!’ she splutters. She grabs the side and hauls herself up. She starts to laugh then screams looking at his arm, ‘there’s something on you! Get out,’ she says, more calmly. ‘It’s a leech.’

They scramble awkwardly out of the tank and land on the red dirt. It’s clinging to his arm above the elbow. A slimy bluish sausage skin swelling as they watch. He chops at it with the side of his hand, but it just goes on getting bigger. Its mouth grips like a metal clip. He feels faint.

‘Hold on –’ she reaches for her bag and pulls out a box of matches, lights one but it goes out, lights another and holds it against the leech until it jerks and falls off, releasing a bright trickle of blood.

He leans giddily against the tank a minute. Then laughs. ‘Thank God for the Girl Guides.’

‘What?’ She looks at him crossly. ‘Oh, ha ha.’

He swallows. It looks like a bloody old condom twitching in the dust.

‘Get your shoes on,’ Cassie says. ‘Ants, everywhere.’ They are already swarming towards his drying blood. They pull their sweaty clothes on over damp skins. She finds him another plaster for his heel and he puts his trainers on, undone, minus the socks. They wait beside the tank for a few minutes or so, till there’s a gust of breeze strong enough to turn the pump. Flies buzz deafeningly, batting softly against their faces. The pump creaks and Cassie manages to catch maybe a pint of clean water. They take a swig each. It is warm but clean, tastes of clay.

‘At least we won’t dehydrate,’ she says.

He looks at her and shakes his head. ‘How
did
you know what to do about the leech?’ he asks.

‘Obvious, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘These
bloody
flies.’ She flaps her hand, jams her hat down as far over her face as she can.

A big white cockatoo lands on the edge of the water tank. Stiff white quiff like a frosted Elvis.

‘Hello,’ Cassie says in a stupid voice.

‘Cockie, cockie,’
it replies, in a creaking voice.
‘Good boy Cockie.’

She laughs. ‘Cockie?’

‘Cockie, cockie.’

‘Poor thing. Must have belonged to whoever –’

‘But this place must have been derelict for
years.’

‘Maybe things rot quicker in this climate? Anyway parrots live ages.’ She slaps her calf to get rid of the ants climbing her leg. ‘Let’s get away from here.’

They go across to a pile of sun-bleached, splintery timber and sit down. The late afternoon light is shading to a syrupy gold. No proper breakfast, no lunch, and soon no supper. Graham manages, between the awkward planks, to wangle himself a place to stretch out. He smokes a fag, flies crawling on his fingers, the fag, the corner of his mouth. Above him the sky is still blue though the quality of the light is changing; what is it that’s different about afternoon light than morning? The breeze rustling the leaves of the trees sounds like the sea. Imagine the cold North Sea. His stomach moans.

‘Yeah,’ Cassie agrees, batting the flies away. ‘If we only had some food we’d be OK.’

He shuts his eyes. Obviously they’ll stay here tonight. And then? Shuts his mind to the question. Too tired, too hungry. The wood is warm to lie on. He’s starting to melt towards sleep when Cassie says:

‘Get up!’

The tone of her voice makes him obey and it is not until he is standing on the ground that he sees the snake, a skinny, black and red thing, deadly-looking, rearing up, flickering its tongue. They back away. The snake holds its pose for a moment and then flows away under the woodpile.

‘Exactly
the sort of place for snakes and all sorts,’ she says. ‘We should have thought.’

‘Yeah.’ Graham looks forlornly at the comfortable plank.

‘We’d better look for something to eat,’ she says. ‘There must be something.’

He limps, bad heel squashing down the back of his trainer, behind her through the heaps of debris. They find a patch of melons the size of tennis balls. He splits one open but it is dry inside, thready and bitter. Inedible.

‘We could dig up grubs,’ Graham says. ‘They’re meant to be nutritious.’ He means it as a tease but Cassie looks at him quite seriously.

‘Only if the worst comes to the worst,’ she says.

‘Or I could
kill
something,’ he suggests, looking at the white cockatoo, which is getting on his tits, hopping round with them, congratulating itself.
Good boy Cockie
.

‘Anyway, it won’t hurt us not to eat for one day. Think of it as a detox. We’ve still got a couple of peppermints. Want yours now or save it?’

Graham holds his hand out. Puts it in his mouth and tries not to crunch. His jaw aches to chew something. What about tomorrow? But can’t face the question now. If he can’t eat he must at least get horizontal. But where? The place is heaving with bugs, snakes, there’s a great tough spider’s web stretched between two bushes, thick as fuse wire. Imagine the bugger that spun that.

‘If you could have anything to eat, anything in the world, what would you have?’ Cassie says. He looks at her in disbelief. She closes her eyes and smiles. ‘I’d have a glass of lemonade – with ice – and a huge slice of Victoria sponge. With strawberry jam and fresh cream. Thick, cool, white –’

‘Shut up.’

‘Don’t –’ she begins then stops. ‘Hey?’ She holds up her hand. ‘Hey,
listen.’

‘What?’ A gust of breeze fluttering the leaves, a creak of the pump, the poxy parrot squawking, a gush of missed fresh water. Should have rigged something up to catch it –

‘Listen
.’

He strains his ears. She’s right, there is something. An engine sound. He shuts his eyes to listen better. The noise quickly gets louder. A plane! It is a plane! They go out into the open, search the sky till it appears, a small plane, flying low enough, surely, to spot them.

Graham takes off his T-shirt, waves it, Cassie waves her hat, jumping as the plane comes low.
‘Here, here, here,’
she shrieks. The plane dips a wing and circles low and then away again.

‘It must have seen us,’ she wails.

He waits, watches. ‘It’s coming back.’

‘Oh thank God, thank you, God. Oh no –’

It seems to be leaving but it is only banking into a turn.

‘Working out where to land,’ Graham says. The blood roars in his head, he feels he might pass right out with the relief. He pulls his T-shirt back on.
Oh thank you
, he looks back at the sky, at whatever,
thank you
. He pulls Cassie towards him, holding her tightly, she is alive, he is alive, it is all OK. They stand waiting. Holding hands like a couple of kids until the plane finally does touch down and bumps towards them, sending up a storm of dust. The cockatoo croaks and flaps away.

They grin at each other, walk towards the plane and – at the same instant – stop.

Out of the dust walks Larry, adjusting his panama. ‘Well, well, well, what have we here?’

Graham blinks. Scratch of dust in his eye. Cassie’s nails dig into his hand.

‘Thought you’d take a little stroll, eh?’ Larry says. ‘Can we offer you a lift or would you rather walk back?’

Graham looks at Cassie but her head is down, hair sticking to her face, hat scrunched in her hand. He looks round at the ruined place. The pump turns, slosh of water. The trees swish. The birds, which had risen in fright, settle back amongst the leaves. There’s nothing for it but to follow Larry to the plane.

‘G’day.’ A smile crawls across Kip’s face. Blank shine in his eyes. They do up the belts. Larry slams shut the door. Cassie looks away, out of the window. He sees her throat contract as she swallows, the white line above her upper lip. But no tears. He reaches for her hand. The plane roars into life, bumps across the ground and lifts, leaving his stomach behind. He sees a startled kangaroo and joey bounding away and then they tilt and he can see nothing but sky.

His guts lurch as the plane lifts and banks. Nothing in his stomach to be sick with, only water. Cassie’s grip on his hand tightens. A pool of sweat between their palms. The back of Larry’s head is in his face, bouffant grey hair exposing the
thinness underneath; pink skin, yellow bone, what kind of sick brain?

Graham swallows down a surge of nausea. Forces himself to look out again, down at the land below, patterned with a trace of road, stippled bush, crawly shapes of dried watercourses. Shadows are scrawled huge by the low sun. The mountain ridges have gone purple in the granular orange light. He leans back, closes his eyes – and something strikes him that he missed before. Thinks of the pebble. Slides his free hand into his pocket. Too giddy to look but he knows the look of it. The angular lines, the shades of red and blue. Burnt colours. A weird geometry of lines, angles. He looks out again. From above, it makes sense, this land makes sense. You can understand the scale from above. The relationship between the immensity and this tiny pebble pattern. Like macro and micro. If not so nauseous he’d be excited. The pebble as a kind of key. A way in.

In a humiliatingly short time, they land. All night they drove, all day they walked and, in a few minutes, they are back. The tin roof ridged deeply golden by the setting sun.

The car is there. Parked in its usual place. No sign of its adventure, except a dent in the roof. How has he got it back? They get out and stand and watch till the plane is nothing but a speck in their eyes against the burning tangerine sky.