Out of Alice (2 page)

The country had changed without Sara noticing. Grey mulga had given way to a scattering of different trees where the fence ran and beyond was an open plain, grassed over with pale feed. She stared and swallowed, overcome by sudden dread. The feeling was as intense as it was inexplicable. Her hands clenched and a cold sweat broke over her body. She swallowed convulsively but her mouth filled again as her stomach churned. She gasped, ‘Stop! Please stop!' Jack slammed on the brakes and she tumbled out and ran a few paces before bending double to a bout of helpless retching.

Jack took his time about exiting the vehicle, for which Sara was grateful. When he finally reached her side it was with a plastic cup of water to rinse her mouth. ‘Did you get a fly?' he asked sympathetically.

‘No.' Sara's nausea had passed as quickly as it had come and the dread with it; her heartbeat was back to normal and all she felt was embarrassment. ‘Sorry, I don't know what came over me. I just felt . . .' It was impossible to say
terrified
so she let the sentence hang.

‘Maybe you're a bad traveller,' he suggested. ‘It's not the best road.'

Sara gave a shaky laugh. ‘Honestly? I wouldn't know. I've never been off the bitumen before. It's probably the heat. How much further?'

‘'Bout an hour.'

‘Okay.' They started again and Sara, seeking distraction from her whirling thoughts, said, ‘All this grass, why don't the cattle eat that?'

‘They can't reach it.' The succinct reply stumped her, and seeing it he explained. ‘No water. Len's hoping to punch a bore down here some day, but the chances aren't good. This is the Forty Mile block; people have drilled here before without success.'

Puzzled, she said, ‘I thought it was Redhill?'

‘So it is. The Forty Mile's just the old name for a section of a mining lease that was incorporated into Redhill twenty years back. The miners never hit water on it, though.'

‘Still, if things are so bad, isn't it worth the gamble?'

‘Probably,' Jack agreed. ‘But first you've got to get the rig. It costs a lot to get 'em out on site, especially if you can't guarantee more than one hole. And at the end of it you could still come up dry.'

‘I see.' A glint of silver caught her eye. ‘What's that?'

‘Microwave repeater tower for communication.'

‘Ah. For a cattle property,' she remarked, ‘there doesn't seem to be many cows. I've only seen one so far – and it was dead.'

‘Time of day. They're on the waters now. You'll see a few when we pass Canteen bore, about fifteen k from here.'

Sara lapsed into silence again, a little frown between her smooth brows. She ought to say something; Jack would be wondering if she was having second thoughts. Her hands moved on her lap, the right index finger flicking repeatedly against her thumb, a habit she was scarcely aware of. She felt washed out, but not – thank God! – as if a migraine were imminent. That would surely impress her employer, to turn up prostrate after catching the bus on the wrong day. It was certainly desolate-looking country – there seemed to be no end to the sky and the pinkness she had glimpsed in it before was nothing to do with window tinting after all, but dust. Pretty really, layered above the blue with the dull grey sheen of the scrub below it.

Five minutes short of the hour Jack had stipulated, they drove through the horse-paddock gate and Sara caught her first glimpse of Redhill Station, a flash of metal roof and mill sails, and a complex of drab buildings. The largest, an open-fronted shed, had the word
REDHILL
spelled out along its length in letters a metre high. The other smaller buildings she would later come to recognise as feed and saddle sheds, a chook pen, the men's quarters, the meat house and, foremost, the homestead.

It was set in a railed and netted enclosure full of shade trees and lawn. After the dusty hours on the road the green was a sudden feast for her eyes. A red cattle dog came racing to meet them as Jack pulled in by the front gate, where dusty oleander bushes dropped blossoms of pink and red. He switched off and in the sudden silence Sara heard the creak of the mill wheel turning on the flat, the cries of the cockies lining the tank's rim and the sound of hammering from the sheds. Then the dog barked expectantly and Jack pushed his door open.

‘G'day, Jess old girl. Well, here we are, Sara. Come on in and meet Beth and the kids.'

Beth Calshot was a lean, wiry-looking woman with long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail that accentuated the thinness of a face marked with sun wrinkles at the corners of her brown eyes. She wore khaki shorts and a blue singlet top that outlined the sparse shape of a body from which all softness seemed to have been stripped. Seeing them, she trod quickly down the five steps leading from the wide front verandah.

‘Mavis rang,' she said. ‘I'm so glad you've come, and early too.' She shook Sara's hand with a firm grip. Her nails, Sara saw, were short and unpainted. ‘How do you do? Did you have a good trip out? Call me Beth. I do hope you're going to like it here.'

Sara was warmed by the welcome. ‘I'm afraid I misunderstood your message about the mail, what day it ran. It's lucky Jack was there to rescue me. I hadn't realised the distances involved.'

‘Oh, but it's not really far —' Beth broke off anxiously, then grimaced. ‘Oh dear, will you listen to me? Of course, you'll make up your own mind about that. Now, would you like a cuppa before you unpack? What about you, Jack?'

‘Please, but first I want to check if Len's got any gas. You girls go ahead. I'll bring Sara's gear in.'

‘Right. You didn't get it fixed, then?'

‘Cracked the damn pipe. Where're the kids?'

‘Getting the goats in. Kitchen's this way, Sara.'

Beth led the way through the central section of the house. Dining-­cum-lounge, Sara noted, with a heavy polished table and sideboard juxtaposed with cane chairs and a television.

‘Satellite TV,' Beth said quickly, catching her glance. ‘We've got
some
mod cons.'

Sara smiled. ‘I'm sure.' The kitchen space was crammed with a coldroom, freezer, a slow combustion stove obviously not in use, and a smaller gas model beside it that was. Beth lit the gas while Sara continued her survey, seeing sink, cupboards, breakfast bar and a pine table where, she guessed, most meals would be eaten. The dining room, she thought, had a special-occasion look about it.

‘Take a seat,' Beth invited. ‘Tea won't be a moment. Do you cook, Sara?'

‘Yes,' she answered, surprised. ‘I enjoy it. Nothing fancy, just ordinary meals.'

Beth nodded. ‘Good. Not that I'll expect you to do much of it. But now and then, perhaps.' She made the tea and, with an economy of movement that spoke of long practice, dumped mugs, sugar, milk and a tin of biscuits on the bare tabletop, before seating herself opposite. She turned the pot several times. ‘The thing is, the reason you're here is because my son is not well. Sam has acute lymphoblastic leukemia. He's eleven.' Her throat moved as she looked at the younger woman. ‘He needs regular chemotherapy and that means monthly trips to the Alice. He will get better,' she said forcefully, picking up the teapot, ‘but it means that I need someone in the schoolroom with Becky to oversee her lessons, and to run the kitchen when I'm away with Sam. Len, my husband, used to share the driving with me and we'd take Becky too, but with the drought . . .' Her brown eyes studied Sara and she sighed wearily. ‘There's another trip coming up. That's why, right now, I'm desperately hoping you won't be taking the next mail out.'

‘I'm so sorry about Sam.' Sara added milk to her cup. ‘The poor kid, that's truly awful for him, and you.' She felt a surge of dismay at the news, wondering just how sick he was and how it would affect her job.

‘I know. And he's so damn brave about it all.' Beth's voice wavered momentarily. ‘It's not a pleasant treatment. It makes him so ill. Anyway, that's the job,' she continued, pushing the biscuit tin at her guest. ‘Becky's nine and she can't afford to miss any more schooling. Sam's way behind, of course, but that can't be helped. When he's well again . . .'

‘Yes,' Sara agreed meaninglessly. The tea tasted funny; she took another sip, schooling her expression. ‘How long has he been ill?'

‘This is the second year, and the treatment could last another yet. But if it makes him better —'

‘Of course.' Sara hesitated, asked anyway. ‘Jack said something about your last governess leaving?'

Beth grimaced, skin tight over prominent cheekbones. She looked as gaunt as the barren landscape outside, nerves stretched tight by worry and fear for her son. ‘Gela was Swedish and only nineteen. She couldn't stand it. I suppose it
is
lonely for outsiders. I've had two others come, both young, but neither stayed. That's why when I heard you were older – well, I thought you'd handle it better.' She gave another grimace, this one comical. ‘You're the last person I should be saying this to!'

‘It's okay,' Sara soothed, feeling sympathy for the woman. Beth seemed stripped to essentials. Fear for a child could do that, she supposed. Or perhaps it was the cost of living out here. She was suddenly ashamed of the nebulous fears that had driven her to this isolated outpost. If their circumstances were reversed, she couldn't imagine this plain-spoken bush woman doing as she had, because some man had frightened her. She'd probably take a shovel to him instead.

‘If it would only rain.' Beth sighed, then gave a small grin. ‘You'll hear that a lot, Sara. It's all people can think of, when the rain will come. Things will be so different then. This is pretty country, you know, in a good season. Really it is.'

‘I'll have to take your word on that because I've never seen anything so – so empty and desolate. We passed a few cattle at a tank, and I saw a dead cow and some crows, and about a billion grey trees. And that was it.'

‘Mulga. Yes, but the sand country grows on you, if you let it. Well –' Beth stood and collected the dirty mugs – ‘don't be afraid to ask the kids about the place. They know how it all works, the land, the stock. They can teach you heaps. Because you'll find everything easier if it makes sense, if you know why things happen.' A smile flashed. ‘I need you to like the place, to stay. Anyway, there're the goat bells now. Come on out and meet your pupils.'

The children were at the goat yard, which lay between the last shed and the distant glitter of old bottles on the station rubbish dump. The animals milled about the yard where their young had been penned for the night, watching the women's approach with calm, yellow eyes. Jess, the cattle bitch, accompanied them, sniffing Sara's shoes before silently migrating to her companion's side.

This was Sam, the taller of the two children. He was plainly unwell, with that thin, fine-drawn look of chronic illness. He moved more slowly than his sister and the felt hat he wore rested almost on his ears, as if his head had somehow shrunk. He had Beth's brown eyes, but the flesh below them looked bruised against his pale skin.

‘Hello,' he said politely in response to his mother's introduction. He looked puzzled. ‘It's not Friday. How did you get here?'

‘With your uncle,' Sara responded.

‘Uncle Jack's home?' the little girl squealed. ‘Cool. Are you gonna teach us now, instead of Mum?'

‘Yes, Becky,' Sara said. ‘But I hope you and Sam are going to help me learn about the station too. There's so much I don't know. For instance, why have you locked up the baby goats?'

It was Sam, amazed by her ignorance, who answered. ‘So we can milk the nannies in the morning.'

‘Oh, so you use goat's milk. Is it nice?'

He shrugged, at a loss. ‘It's milk.'

Beth smiled faintly. ‘Not helpful, Sam.' To Sara she said, ‘You had some in your tea.'

That explained the odd taste. Feeling a fraud, Sara smiled at both children. ‘There, you've already taught me something.'

‘I'm gonna see Uncle Jack,' Becky declared and took off at a run.

Sam stayed behind to walk soberly back beside his mother, whose hand came to rest on his shoulder. ‘Okay?' she asked softly.

‘A bit tired.' Quickly he added, ‘I'm okay, Mum. It was just a long walk.'

‘Early night, then, I think.' She spoke lightly but Sara saw the strain in her face, a look she would come to associate with Sam's down periods when his energy levels were low or his appetite off. Of course the worry must be constant for her, so far from the ambulance service and hospitals. Sam's illness would be a tremendous burden for any family, she thought compassionately, but how much more so for one way out here?

At the house Beth glanced at the lengthening shadows. ‘Dinner won't be long. But there's time enough to shower or unpack if you want to.'

Sara did both. Her room opened onto a side verandah and contained all she would need. There was, she was glad to see, a ceiling fan, and a bed with a white coverlet and two pillows, patterned drapes at the French doors, a dressing table and a narrow wardrobe. A bulky roll on top of it proved to be an old-fashioned hooked rug – for use in winter, she deduced. Slipping off her shoes, Sara lay down to test the mattress; she yawned, settling her head onto the pillow. It had been a long day. Moments later she had drifted off, to wake to a persistent knocking and Becky's voice calling that dinner was ready.

It was still warm although the sun had set while she slept. Night enfolded the homestead with a blackness Sara had never experienced before, and somewhere out in it a diesel engine thudded monotonously. They would eat in the dining room.

‘To celebrate your arrival,' Beth explained, ‘and to prove we can be civilised.'

Becky, plainly pleased with the novelty of it, had set out linen placemats and had begged to use the good plates as well. ‘
I
did the table,' she told Sara proudly.

‘And you made a lovely job of it,' Sara responded.

The little girl beamed.

The men arrived, heads wet from recent showering. Jack hoisted an eyebrow at his niece, who was fussing with paper napkins. ‘What's all this, then, Squirt? Putting on the dog for Sara?'

Becky giggled. ‘It's a party, Uncle Jack.'

‘You'll be giving her ideas. Next thing she'll want a rise in pay.' But he winked at Sara as he spoke and she smiled back, amused by his relentless cheerfulness. He'd shaved and scrubbed his nails and, now that his hat was off and she could see his face properly, he wasn't bad looking. The white stripe across his forehead where his hat habitually rested was startling at first, but Beth's husband had it too.

Len Calshot looked older than his wife, a rangy six-footer with sun-damaged skin and big freckled hands. His hair, a lighter brown than Beth's, was thinning, and there was a bloodhound droop to his cheeks, which, with his dark eyes, gave him a mournful look that vanished when he smiled. He welcomed Sara in a low voice, then settled himself before the casserole dish to serve out the meal, passing each plate as it was filled to Beth, who added mashed potatoes.

Jack was seated across from Sara. Once they were all eating she asked, ‘Have you found whatever it was you wanted for the thing you were repairing?'

He grinned. ‘That's one way of putting it. Yeah, I did. So what do you think of the place, Sara?'

‘Leave her be, Jack,' Beth admonished. ‘Don't put her on the spot like that.'

‘Actually I like it. It's so peaceful. You've a comfortable home, Beth. Is it very old?'

‘Oh, yes. Eighty-odd years since this house was built. Len's fourth generation, you know. We upgraded the homestead when we got married: put in the coldroom and the gas stove, built the bathroom. The old bathroom was outside under the high tank: ghastly in winter! The house is beginning to need attention now, and the floors are well overdue for resurfacing. The climate's very hard on timber. But it's not likely to happen this year – or next. Drought takes everything, you see.'

‘I notice the laundry is outside. Why's that?' It was a separate building next to the wood heap; she had spotted it on her return from the goat yard.

‘Because of the copper,' Beth explained. ‘Len's mother used to scrub the clothes on a table, then boil them. It was 32-volt power back then on the stations, if they had any at all. We've progressed to a washing machine since, so feel free to use it, but only when the diesel is running, please. It pulls too much power from the batteries otherwise.'

‘You're not on the grid?' She caught Sam's look of surprise and something very like a snort from Jack, but Beth's tone was serene.

‘Heavens, no. We have a solar rig and battery bank. Sam can explain it to you. He knows all about alternative energy.'

Beth bent a quelling look upon her brother and began collecting plates. ‘Who's for pudding?'

Len, who so far had said little, asked, ‘Where's home for you, Sara?'

‘Adelaide. It's where I was born, educated and worked until now. Except for a week or so in Mildura, of course.'

‘What did you do?' he persisted.

‘Oh, office work at the Commonwealth Employment Agency.' She smiled at Sam. ‘It was very dull. Coming here's the most exciting thing I've ever done.'

‘When I grow up,' Becky struck in, ‘I'm gonna be a pilot for the Flying Doctors.'

‘Good for you. I wish I'd thought of that. I
did
work in a cake shop once, though,' Sara admitted, eyes twinkling at the children.

‘Did you get to eat any?' Sam asked.

‘Sadly, not often. It was mostly sweeping and washing up.'

‘I wouldn't have stayed,' he declared, curling his lip. ‘Not in a shop.'

‘I was in high school. I needed the money for books. What do you plan on doing when you're grown up, Sam?'

‘Help Dad, of course.' His bald skull, which looked so vulnerable in the light, turned towards his father. ‘And when he's as old as Pops, I'm gonna run Redhill myself.'

‘And if he gets sick again,' Becky chimed in, ‘
I'll
fly the doctor out to make him better.'

‘Sounds like a plan,' Sara nodded.

‘'S'a good one,' Becky agreed complacently. ‘'Cause when I grow up I'm gonna marry Uncle Jack, and he's gonna keep my plane working so it won't
ever
break down.'

Jack looked at his sister. ‘In that case I reckon I need two helpings of pudding to keep my strength up.'

Jack left immediately after the meal, the bright lance of his headlights cutting a way through the dark paddock. Becky went out to see him off, then scampered back to the kitchen where Sara was helping clear up, while Len watched the news.

‘Quick, Sara, come and see.'

‘Why aren't you cleaning your teeth?' Beth asked sternly.

‘I will, Mum. I want to show Sara the sky first.'

‘Make it fast, then. Has Sam gone to bed?'

‘Yes. Come,' she tugged Sara's hand and they went together to the verandah and down the front steps. ‘Shut your eyes,' the child commanded, ‘and wait.' A few moments passed. ‘Okay, now look.'

Sara lifted her head and her breath caught on a gasp. She had never until then seen the night sky in its natural state. There was no chance of doing so in the city and even Mildura's lights had cast glow enough to diffuse their splendour. But here the myriad stars glittered above her, pulsing with every breath she took. How had Paterson put it?
And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars.
They spread across the arch of the heavens like the glitter of diamonds against black silk. Beside her Becky swivelled, slowly naming the constellations.

‘That's the Milky Way and there's the Saucepan, see? And the Seven Sisters – only there aren't really seven. Well, there are, Dad says, only you can't see them all. That's the evening star setting, low down there, see? And that bright one's the pointer for the Cross coming up.'

Sara was amazed. ‘How do you know all this?'

‘Dad told me,' she said smugly. ‘You like it? I'm glad. That's where I'll be flying one day, up there where the stars live.'

‘It's beautiful.' Sara looked down at the blur of the child's upturned face. ‘Thanks for showing me, Becky. You're a very lucky girl, and I'm not the least surprised you want to fly.'

They didn't keep late hours at Redhill. The children were well asleep by nine and the adults too had retired. Sara switched off the bedside light and lay listening to a silence broken only by the whirr of the fan and the faint creak and splash of the mill turning in a vagrant breeze. She had left the French doors ajar and the breeze whispered softly through the room, cool on her skin. She wondered if Jack had reached the roadhouse yet, and what would now be done to fill the vacant position she had left so hurriedly in Mildura. If it seemed a week since she had got off the bus at Charlotte Creek, the actions that had driven her to boarding it belonged to another age.

It had all begun that afternoon at the beach.

Normally Sara wouldn't have gone there: as a redhead she wasn't a beach person. Her pale skin was unsuited to exposure, and her thick wild crop of curls would claim their own penance when the spray and boisterous wind were done with them. She had stood at the top of the sand, clutching her hat and takeaway coffee (disappointingly lukewarm) and wondered why she had come. It had been the impulse of a moment on a dull Sunday afternoon. A walk on the beach and a coffee. Where was the harm?

It had been an unusually warm day in late August and the place was crowded with sunbakers and surfers, there were kids with spades, boys with boogie boards and a half-dozen youths down at the water's edge tossing a bright plastic ball about. Even as she watched, a gust of wind took the soaring ball and spun it inland. Heads swung like a choreographed dance to follow its flight as two of the youths began to run. The ball might have been aimed towards her. Mouth slightly open, she craned upwards, watching as it sailed closer. Just as its volume blocked the sun, turning the coloured sphere black, a third person, a man she hadn't even noticed till then, gave an exuberant leap to head it and his flying elbow rammed her shoulder, knocking her to the beach.

Was that when the terror hit her – or was it the moment before? She was no longer sure; she knew only that she was sprawled in the sand in an explosion of coffee, confusion and gibbering fear. Light was blinding her, fear sucking away her senses. There was sand in her hair and on her face, coffee soaked her blouse and dripped from her arm and she was panting as if she had run a marathon. Her shoulder hurt and one shoe had come off. She had raised a trembling palm to block the light and saw above it the loom of her assailant's face and reaching hands, and terror had taken over.

‘Get away from me!' She thrust herself backwards, scrabbling awkwardly. Her mouth opened to scream and the man had hastily stepped back.

‘Jesus, lady! Look, I'm sorry.' Her face, to his surprise, was bone-white against the undisciplined riot of her hair. ‘It was an accident. I didn't see you.'

Sara's panic had vanished as suddenly as it had come. She flushed, feeling angry, foolish and embarrassed. Her heart was racing, her mouth dry, and she wished only to be elsewhere. She rose unsteadily, searching for her bag and hat. The former had flown open when she fell, vomiting its contents across the sand. The man had crouched to collect her things and half the beach with it, she thought crossly, watching him shovel up her belongings. He snatched her hat in passing as it bowled away on the wind, the vigorous shake he subjected it to doing nothing for the straw.

‘I do apologise.' He eyed the blouse and grimaced. ‘And for that, too. God! Nice going, Mike. I'm Mike Markham, by the way, off-duty cop. Please, let me buy you another coffee to make amends.'

‘It's all right,' Sara said brusquely, eager to be gone. She registered only his general appearance: well built, dark hair, olive skin. Perhaps a Mediterranean heritage? ‘An accident, no apologies needed. I didn't really want the first coffee anyway.'

She had walked away, ending the encounter, and had thought no more of it at the time, save for the mild annoyance occasioned by the stained blouse and the subsequent discovery that her address book had been overlooked in his mad scramble to retrieve her belongings.

Well, it didn't matter. She had the information elsewhere and there was nothing of a personal nature in it: business contacts, the salon where she had her hair done, the SES – where was the harm in being prepared? – her mother's current number. Sara felt her lips twist at the final thought. It said everything about her relationship with Stella that she had to write down her phone number.

Sara sighed and pushed aside her hair to let the fan cool the pillow, which had become unpleasantly warm. Even though the sun was long gone the house still retained its heat. If it had only been the man, she reflected, she could have braced him, demanded to know why he was following her. But it was that blinding instant of terror she had felt as he loomed above her that was the problem. She was cautious in her dealings with men, as any young woman alone in a city in the nineteen nineties was wise to be, but she wasn't afraid of them as such. Only this one. She should have demanded a reason for his persistence the day after that first encounter at the beach, when he'd bobbed up beside her on the pavement as she left the office to buy her lunch. He'd had two takeaway coffees in a cardboard holder and had called her by name, claiming to have learned it from a co-worker in the office. She had snubbed him and stalked off – a mistake, she thought now. Better if she had taken the coffee and found out what he wanted. At the time she had mistakenly put his interest down to her looks. Sara knew that men found her attractive, but when she was still a teenager her mother's promiscuity had aroused a fastidiousness in her daughter that baulked at easy conquests. She would not allow herself to be the subject of a pick-up in the street. Whatever her contemporaries might do she had no inclination to sleep with casual dates.

After that there had been no reason to believe she would ever see the man again. And if, a week later, she hadn't developed that migraine . . . Sara shuddered, thinking of it. She had suffered them intermittently for years, the headaches starting soon after the car crash that had blanked out all memory of her early childhood. Sara had been six or seven when it happened, but had only the haziest recall of being in bed for an unspecified time, and being forbidden to go outside. During puberty the headaches had developed into full-blown migraines, crippling in their severity. She had come to recognise the warning signs though and the moment her vision splintered into flashing light she had informed her boss and left to go home.