Out of Alice (14 page)

‘Careful! There's dust everywhere.' Clemmy ducked ineffectually and snorted as drifts of it puffed over her from the lifted canvas. ‘Oh, well,' she looked down at herself. ‘What's it matter how I look? It's just dust.'

Even coated in dust she looked pretty darn good. She must have had a haircut while in town. The short blonde strands capped her head like a golden helmet, and her skin positively glowed with health as if the long drive had no power to weary her. ‘Come in,' Sara said. ‘Helen will have the kettle on. How was your trip?'

‘Great.' Clemmy stretched. ‘Ooh, that feels good. Becky's a nice little kid. Beth sent her regards, by the way. She's happy with Sam's progress, though he's still quite pale and thin, poor little chap. How have things been here?'

‘We got the bore,' Sara said. ‘Everyone's thrilled, as you can imagine.'

‘That's wonderful.' Clemmy's eyes sparkled with uncomplicated pleasure. ‘It's about time the Calshots caught a break! I'm so pleased for them. Hello, Helen. Here's your granddaughter safely back.'

‘So I see. And she enjoyed herself. Thank you for that. Come in and sit down. Have some tea. You must be parched.'

Clemmy nodded. ‘I could certainly assault a good cuppa. Tell me all about the bore.'

The time flew by and too soon Clemmy rose, stacking cup and plate.

‘Just leave them.' Helen handed her a parcel. ‘A nut loaf. Your cake tins will be empty if I know men. And there's not just you and Colin to feed now.'

Clemmy's gaze flew to the older woman's face but there was real gratitude in her smiling look. ‘That's sweet of you, thanks a lot, Helen.'

‘I'll walk you out.' Sara eyed her, a question in her mind. When they reached the gate she said, ‘Um, if you don't mind my asking, you wouldn't be pregnant, would you?'

Clemmy laughed, white teeth flashing, blue eyes alight. ‘I've been
dying
to tell someone my news, but I was waiting for it to be Colin. How did you guess?'

Sara laughed too. ‘Your face, when Helen said that about not just having you and Colin to feed. Of course she meant young Nick. Congratulations. How far along are you?'

‘Eight weeks. Colin will be so thrilled!'

‘He hasn't guessed about the reason for your trip?'

‘I told him I was going in for a breast screen. I didn't want to get his hopes up in case . . . We've been trying for so long, we both thought it was never going to happen. I'm so happy, Sara!'

‘I'm glad. Better news than the bore, then?'

Clemmy smiled happily. ‘As good, anyway,' she said. ‘Horses for courses.' She kissed Sara's cheek. ‘Our secret for the time being?'

‘Yes, of course. Take care.' Sara waved her off and stood watching the ribbon of dust spiral up behind the vehicle as it vanished down the paddock.

Getting back into the discipline of the school day after the holidays proved hard for Becky. After a morning of sighs and inattention Sara began to wonder if her pupil's visit to town had been such a good idea. It seemed to have unsettled the girl and even made her envious of her brother's situation.

‘Sam doesn't have to do school,' she muttered resentfully.

‘Sam is sick. I'm sure he wishes he was well enough to be home and at school,' Sara said. ‘Some things we just have to do, Becky, and school is one of them.'

‘Well, I hate it. It's not fair! How come nobody makes
you
do things you don't want to?' She had been copying out her spelling list, and suddenly scribbled all over her work, the pencil point scoring through the sheet. Her face flamed in rebellion as she glared defiantly at her teacher. ‘I don't care if I never learn the stupid words.'

Sara kept her voice calm. ‘That's a pity. You'll have to do it again now and I was hoping we'd have time for a story this afternoon, but it seems we won't. You had better get a clean sheet of paper and start over.'

Becky's face darkened and her bottom lip stuck out but Sara saw that she didn't quite dare to openly refuse. She scowled at the paper pile instead but curiosity was eating at her and after a brief struggle it won.

‘What story?'

‘Oh, just one about some kids who find a magic tree in the forest,' Sara said. ‘Harry brought it out on Friday. It's quite a long story. I thought I'd read you a bit each day after your lessons, but if you're not going to do them . . .'

The ploy worked and then it was time for the on-air lesson. When that was finished Becky had resigned herself to the inevit­ability of schoolwork for the rest of the day. Sara read her the first chapter of
The Magic Faraway Tree
as both a reward and an incentive, and wished she had a library to draw from. She resolved to thoroughly investigate the bookshelves in the dining room, but doubted there would be much in the way of children's books among them.

Becky, however, settled back into routine and got through the week without further problems, working eagerly towards the fifteen­-minute story time each afternoon. Helen, consulted on the topic of children's books, frowned thoughtfully at the china cupboard she was in the act of cleaning out.

‘I think – yes, I'm pretty certain that I did keep a box of my kids' books. They were on the bottom shelf of the bookcase on the verandah at Arkeela for years, and when we packed up I remember putting them aside. I wasn't sure that Becky and Sam would read them. It's another generation, after all . . .'

‘I loved Enid Blyton,' Sara pointed out, ‘and Becky does too. I'm sure there'd be something suitable in them.'

‘Well, the box is stashed in the garage. I'll ask Len to grab it. He'll be going in over the weekend to pick up the bore equipment. He's taking Becky with him.' She raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘If you wanted a trip to town, I'm sure it would be fine, as long as you don't mind travelling in the truck.'

‘I'll think about it,' Sara promised. The truck in question looked a dreadful old bomb and she couldn't imagine it would be a comfortable ride, particularly with Len at the wheel.

Helen misread her hesitation. ‘Of course, you'd stay at our place with the family. They could move Sam's bed into the lounge and Becky could sleep there too, so you'd have your own room. No need for it to cost you.' Her eyes twinkled. ‘You wouldn't even get a chance at the shops, he'd be loading and heading back Sunday afternoon.'

Sara smiled at her. ‘Thank you. That's very kind. I'll see how I feel about it on Friday.'

Friday came, a still, hot morning that had Frank pinching the folds of his shirt between his fingers as he set down his tea mug at morning smoko, his face running with sweat.

‘I reckon that's it for spring,' he said, flapping the folds of cloth to cool himself. ‘Summer's here.'

‘It's certainly hot,' Sara said faintly. ‘It feels like midday already. It's so still!'

‘A perisher,' Jack agreed. ‘You want to drink plenty today, Sara. The heat's got a way of sneaking up on you.'

‘Let's hope tomorrow's cooler,' Len said. ‘We'll get away early in any case. That truck's a hot ride at the best of times.'

‘It's not air-conditioned?' Sara asked horrified. Even Jack's battered Toyota had air conditioning.

‘Nup.' Len shook his head. ‘Doubt they'd invented it when it was built.'

It was enough to decide Sara against the trip, a decision that Harry's tardy arrival only underscored. He arrived pale and sweaty-looking with a dirty rag twisted about his hand, and the mailbag clamped between arm and body.

‘Gawd! It's hotter'n the hinges of hell,' he declared and slumped into a chair. Belatedly he remembered his hat and pulled it off, allowing Helen a sight of the wrapping on his hand.

‘What have you done to yourself, Harry?'

‘This?' He held his wrist and grimaced. ‘Bastard puncture. Sorry, ladies. There was so much bloody sweat in me eyes I didn't get the jack centred proper. Damn thing slipped orf and caught me thumb.'

‘Let me see.' Helen was eyeing him. ‘Sara, would you get that jug of lemon juice from the fridge, please? And a glass. Thanks.' She pinched the skin of his arm, assessed the result and said sharply, ‘You should know better, man, you're dehydrated. Drink that, then I'll look at your hand.'

Helen, arms akimbo and eyes flashing at male stupidity, was a formidable sight. Harry was forced to down two more glassfuls of the cool juice before he was permitted tea. His hand was a mess, the point of his thumb flattened, the nail split in its bed and the rest swollen to twice its size. Blood crusted the rag that covered it.

‘Well,' Helen said, ‘I dare say a painkiller or two wouldn't go amiss, then I'll clean it up for you. But you realise that you're not going anywhere, don't you?'

‘I gotta,' Harry protested. ‘The mail —'

‘It can wait,' Helen retorted. ‘Len's heading into the Alice early tomorrow. You can ride in with him. He'll be back Sunday so if you want to find somebody to take over while you mend, he can bring him out. Can't you, Len?'

‘Yeah, 'course.' Her son-in-law squinted at the injured hand. ‘That's gonna swell up so much you'll never hold the wheel, let alone change gears. And what about the gates?'

‘Or,' Helen pursued remorselessly, ‘I can call the flying doctor. Suit yourself. And sip a bit more lemon.'

Harry groaned, whether from pain or frustration Sara couldn't tell. Jack said cheerfully, ‘Bulldozers have nothing on my mum, mate. I get a minute, I'll mend that tyre for you. Seriously, it's not a good day for anyone to be driving.'

That comment sparked a reminiscence from Frank about a day back in the sixties when the temperature was over fifty and the heat had burst the tyre on a semitrailer. Sara shuddered at the thought and cleared away the tea things while Helen collected basin, disinfectant and bandages to treat her patient. Just as well she hadn't fancied the trip after all, Sara reflected. If tomorrow was anything like today, she would spend the weekend comatose under a fan.

Later, with the men dispersed back to their jobs and Becky returned to school, Helen brought in a letter for Sara. She had forgotten all about the mailbag. Harry was dozing on the daybed on the verandah, his socked feet visible through the lattice of the schoolroom. Taking the envelope, Sara nodded towards him. ‘Is he all right?'

‘He'll be fine now he's seen sense,' Helen said. ‘But it could have been serious. The shock and the heat – it's why he forgot to drink and once you dehydrate it's a downward spiral. I can't emphasise it too much, Sara – days like this are dangerous. And he ought to know it.'

‘Is it safe for Len to be taking Becky then? I mean, if the truck's not air-conditioned . . .'

‘They'll be fine. It'll be cooler tomorrow; this sort of freakish heat never lasts more than a day. I've seen birds drop dead out of the sky. You just have to stay out of the sun and keep drinking – but men being what they are . . .' She left with the sentence unfinished and Becky looked up, sucking thoughtfully on her pencil end.

‘Does Nan mean ladies are cleverer, Sara?'

‘Well, maybe not cleverer. Just smarter at being sensible. That's nice writing, Becky. Mrs Murray will be really pleased with that page.'

‘D'you think I'll get a star?'

‘Mmnn, maybe.'

Sara's letter was from the registry office. She opened it and looked blankly at the single page to which the cheque she had sent was attached. The short paragraph danced before her eyes. She read it through and then, uncomprehendingly, read it again before mechanically folding it back into its envelope.

‘What's your letter say, Sara?' Becky asked. ‘Is it from Mum?'

‘No, it's not.' Sara frowned at nothing and Becky persisted.

‘Well, who?
I
don't get letters.'

‘You know, mail is private. It's not really polite to ask people about it. And you can't expect to get letters unless you write them. You could write one to Sam.'

‘That's silly. I'll see him tomorrow.'

‘Yes, of course. I forgot. Well, never mind.' Sara made an effort, stuffing the letter into the pocket of her shorts as she took up the timetable. ‘What's next today?'

Alone in her room on break after lunch she read the brief paragraph again. Her cheque was being returned because the office was unable to comply with her request. No child bearing her name or parentage was listed in the state's registry. Sara stared at the words as if doing so might rearrange their meaning. It simply wasn't right. Stella had obtained a copy of her birth certificate, so it had to exist. Had the book – she imagined a humungous ledger – been lost? Or, if the records were computerised, had there been some sort of glitch, a mistake in the spelling? But how many ways could you spell Blake
?
Unless, she suddenly thought, Stella had lied about spending her life in Adelaide and Sara had been born in some other state – Queensland, say, or Western Australia. Did that mean writing to all the capital cities, then? Sara groaned and lay back on the bed, limp from heat and the futility of trying to pierce the fog enshrouding her early life.

Helen was right. Saturday was marginally cooler with a hot wind out of the south that tinged the morning sky a pale pink. There was nothing refreshing about it but it kept the air moving, drying the sweat as it sprang on the skin. Len's party had got away before daylight, Becky stumbling sleepily to the table where her father and Harry already sat, the latter with a piece of toast jammed between his fingers. He had looked better than yesterday, Sara decided, but the hand was obviously painful.

‘Here, these will help,' Helen said, snapping two Panadol from their foil casing. ‘You'd best go straight to the emergency room when you get in. I can fix a sling for you if you like, that'll take the pressure off a bit.'

Harry swallowed the pills dry, the look he gave her one of both gratitude and exasperation.

‘How's a man gonna manage then? I only got one bloody 'and.'

‘Poor man,' Sara said when they'd gone. ‘But he's got a point. I mean, how will he even undo his zip without his thumb?'

Jack snorted. ‘Just as well you didn't ask him. Right, I'm off. You ready, Dad? We'll be home about five, Mum. Anything for Munaroo? We might drop in on our way back.'

‘No, well, unless you think you could take a rooster across? It's about time ours were changed. Beth mentioned it, said she'd arranged a swap with . . . Rinky, is it?'

‘Yeah, it is, but not today. When it's cooler or when I'm going straight there. Today all she'd get is roast chook with his feathers on.'

‘Why would you do that?' Sara asked as the men left. ‘Isn't one rooster the same as another?'

‘Fresh blood. Means you don't get two-headed chicks.' Helen poured herself another cup of tea and eyed the rattling window frame. ‘What a thoroughly awful day. I was going to wash but I think I'll save myself the trouble. The same with the cleaning. Perhaps you could start the hoses a little later? After yesterday the garden could do with a proper soaking.'

The hot wind that day was freighted with grit and as the morning progressed, despite the tightly shuttered windows, it found its way into the house. The still air within was oppressively dry and hot, but outside was worse. By midday the sky to the south had darkened from its earlier pink tinge and Sara, blinking at it from behind her sunglasses, called excitedly to Helen to come and see.

‘It's so dark way back there. Is that cloud? Is it going to storm?'

The older woman shook her head. ‘In a sense, but that's dust, not rain. We'll be shovelling the stuff out of the house tomorrow. You know,' she said crossly, ‘there are times when this country could get you down if you let it. Well, there's nothing we can do about it. It'll be a cold dinner tonight, if we have one, so we'd best make a good lunch. No point in trying to cook once it gets here.'

By three o'clock the wind was blowing in earnest and the air was full of flying sand. The mill moaned, its blades a blur before the force of the wind, and the birds fled down the sky, their strength no match for the force that drove them. With a scarf wrapped about her hair and her eyes half-shut, Sara fought her way to the shed where the poultry was sheltering and wrestled the lid off the drum in which the wheat was kept. She scattered it within the shed but even so the wind found the hens, buffeting them until their feathers stood on end as they staggered about. The rooster with his greater volume of plumage was blown over and struggled squawking to his feet, tail feathers inside out. Sara clanged the lid shut on the wheat drum, then measured out the horse feed, and set off into the blast again but there was no sign of Star or Lancer in their yard. She debated briefly before sharing the feed out, then wished she hadn't, for the wind instantly lifted the lighter chaff from the drums and blew it away. Well, it couldn't be helped. She wondered where the horses had got to. They were always waiting for their feed when school ended. Perhaps they were sheltering in the scrub and would come in later and eat their grain? She was turning to leave when she heard the rattle of bells and remembered the goats.