Australiana Read online

  For the Tamworth crew

  When the river runs dry, the town runs red

  MAP OF THE LAND

  THE TOWN

  MY FACE IS NAMELESS

  THE BLIND SIDE

  PILLIGA

  CAPTAIN THUNDERBOLT

  THE BREAK-IN

  This is getting to be a joke.

  He’s not yet been in this house a month and he’s been broken into four times. The first time he closed his eyes and prayed they wouldn’t come upstairs. He could hear them chatting downstairs, having a laugh, discussing which of his possessions was worth the most. They pushed and shoved, something broke on the floor, and he lay in bed praying, not even believing in the God he was asking to protect him. They cleared out, taking only his grandmother’s silver spoon. He told everyone about the spoon but people said he was lucky to get off so light.

  That had been the first time. The second time he had been in the yard raking leaves. He was making a racket—it should have been a deterrent but it wasn’t—and they lifted the flyscreen from its frame and climbed through the window. He yelled out as they were walking across the living room. They smiled then and waved and he went after them, brandishing his rake. He would have thrown it except he’d break his shiny new things.

  The third time he had been on the toilet. He was pulling at the toilet roll when he heard a floorboard creak downstairs. He closed his eyes, more praying and shaking his fist. Was his house the choice for the month? Did this sort meet and exchange tips about the best place for a break and enter?

  When he told his manager he had been broken into three times—once per week—she had sniffed. ‘For it to be classified as a break and enter, they have to actually break something.’

  How would she like it if people went wandering through her house when she was in bed, in the yard, on the loo? How would she like it if they stole her grandmother’s silver spoon?

  And now this fourth time. A joke. Really.

  His ex said, ‘That’s what you get for having the flashiest place in town.’

  Break-in number four and he was sitting down to tea. It was the same lot and they strolled in and said hello. ‘Nice place you got here!’

  ‘I would appreciate having my tea in peace, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘What’re you having?’

  And like that, they sat themselves down as if they’d been invited round and it was normal they should put out cups, draw out his chairs and pour themselves some tea. They also ate his biscuits before saying goodbye to him.

  As they left, he couldn’t help thinking this wasn’t the last of them and that he should have made an effort to chase them away.

  THE DARE

  It had been a dare. So many stupid things had started out as a dare.

  That big house on the hill … break into it and have a look around.

  It was only meant to be him but the others wanted to come along too.

  May as well have a look.

  So they trooped off, trying to guess what they’d find inside.

  I bet he has stacks of money under his bed.

  I reckon he’s got skeletons and babies in jars.

  I heard there’s so much stuff you can barely walk around inside.

  He didn’t say it but he believed the new guy’s house was as normal as could be. They would find boring furniture with boring photos on every wall and probably a TV that was a hundred years old.

  The first time they just went to have a look. Don’t take anything. We don’t want to get into trouble.

  They were opening drawers and cupboards and Jim accidentally broke a plate. They then realised that the man—Rod? Roy? Something like that—was upstairs in the house with them.

  They bolted the way they came but not before he lifted the spoon and tucked it in his pocket.

  He liked to think it was a souvenir from a place he had been.

  THE SILVER SPOON

  She was done with him and his teenage brat. She had left one shitty situation and landed herself another with a teenager to boot. She had never wanted kids and here she was, raising one that wasn’t her own.

  Tonight she would tell him she was through. I’m cooked, I’m done, sayonara bitches!

  She grabbed the washing from the machine and dumped it beneath the clothesline. She ripped tangled socks away from each other and gave them a peg each on the line. She smashed the clothesline round so that it spun. The socks would be with other socks, the t-shirts would be grouped, and the pants would have their own section. That was how she was going to hang them and if he came out here telling her what to do, well guess what? She wouldn’t wait for dinner to tell him where to go.

  Once the clothes were up, she went inside and drew the blinds. She stared and stared at the wall and thought of all the wrongs he and his boy had ever done. She dredged up every sorry fact and aired it out. She could feel herself stooping lower, her fists clenching, waiting for something to hit. Only yesterday he told her to take up kickboxing.

  Maybe I will, she thought grimly, maybe I just will.

  Eventually she stood up and went to make dinner. They were due home soon: him the hard worker and then there was his delinquent son. He talked about the boy going to university but the kid was destined for jail and no place else.

  She made dinner, she set the table, she waited, she watched the door.

  They arrived at six on the dot, him in his suit and tie, the boy in shorts and a shirt. They chatted loudly, opening doors and banging them shut, rummaging around in the cutlery drawer. And then they sat down together to their meal.

  He said it was delicious.

  The boy rolled the peas around on his plate.

  She asked about everyone’s day.

  The boy removed a silver spoon from his pocket. ‘You wouldn’t believe what I was given today.’ And he launched into a long-winded story about a neighbour giving him an heirloom as a gift.

  She knew he had pinched it from somewhere but his father nodded, a sucker if ever there was one.

  She turned to him next. ‘Darling, how was your day?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe it! I got a promotion!’ And he launched into his long-winded story—this quality must be genetic—about the events leading up to his news.

  Finally, they turned to her. ‘And what about your day?’

  She stabbed at a pea. ‘I cooked, I cleaned, I hung your filthy clothes on the line.’

  They stared at her.

  It was dead silent after that.

  THE PROMOTION

  The day Dave got the promotion started out like any other day. He dressed in the morning: tie, suit, belt. He had his breakfast of cereal and tea, and he was on his way at a quarter to nine. Straight down Brisbane Street, a left at Peel, one block and he was at work. The drive only took five minutes and he ducked into Sonny’s for a coffee and to order a wrap for lunch. That day it was chicken and lettuce: safe, tried and enjoyed a hundred times. He carried his coffee to the office and drank it slowly as he read his emails. There were interruptions as the day wore on—hello Jill, hello Gavin, hello Clarice—and around midday they stood around the kitchen for a chat: families, the drought, the state of the town. They shared the latest gossip about the mayor and then returned to their desks. When he looked up, which was often, his eyes would rest on one of two things: the mountains in the distance or the painting of Moonbi done by a local artist. She had scribbled her signature in the corner and he could make out the word town. His eyes often fell on this painting and sometimes he really saw it but most of the time it was a place to park his eyes while he thought over the urgent matters of the day. Certain topics came up weekly: the water supply, vandalism, greening local areas, upcoming events in town. And he would look up at the painting, his eyes resting somewhere beyond i
t.

  It was five minutes before he was due to break for lunch. He was thinking about Sam who had been called up to the deputy’s because he had been caught smoking. Sorry dad came quick after the first message, and he resolved not to tell her about Sam’s latest episode. The boy was a handful without her yapping in his ear. No, this was one he’d keep to himself.

  He was staring at the keyboard when Gavin stuck his head around. The boss wants to see you!

  He racked his brain but couldn’t think of anything that merited an unexpected call into the big office. He stood, straightened his tie and headed off, sparing a glance for those hills.

  Dave, you’ve been with us over eleven years. I know people are doing it tough and I’d like to talk to you about a project I have in mind.

  The project meant more work and responsibility, the project meant a promotion, the project was a neat sum of money on top of what he already earned.

  He couldn’t find a pen to sign quick enough.

  When he returned to his desk, he was whistling. The place was lighter, airier, and that painting, he looked at it as if seeing it for the first time. Honest, he’d never seen anything lovelier in his life.

  THE PAINTING

  Failure! Already she could see the reviews.

  A departure for Vicki.

  Not her best.

  A woman possessed by bizarre instincts.

  The last one had already been said but that would not stop a critic writing it a second time.

  The colours were off, the hills were not where they were supposed to be. She had worked over the one gully again and again so that her brushstrokes were caked.

  Her husband came in, kissed her goodbye and left on his bike. The house was silent. She was alone.

  The damn painting.

  She left it and turned to the pantry. In a frenzy, she cleared the jars of pickles and jams, the containers with cereal and nuts and spices and dried herbs, the cans of beans and corn and peas and apricot slices and sun-dried tomatoes, the five types of salt (table, cooking, sea, rock, Himalayan pink), the peppers (she didn’t bother to list them in her mind). She tipped everything onto the floor and without a thought, she sorted them: bin, shelf, or find a new home. It took her hours to lay down new paper, to arrange the contents to her liking, to make three trips to the bin outside but there it was, a miracle: a tidy cupboard with a space for even the smallest thing.

  And her painting?

  Ignore the painting.

  Next she tackled the bathroom. There is nothing as humbling as cleaning a toilet bowl.

  And then she arranged the shoes. They had not been polished for ages.

  And her painting?

  Ignore the painting.

  She then cooked a feast suitable for Christmas for the extended gang. She put everything into containers to be distributed to their friends, the neighbours, anyone else she could think of.

  And her painting?

  She sketched the birds on the balcony, the ants climbing over the hill. She photographed the flowers, the trees, she went moody black-and-white, then old-school sepia. She posed for a photo and circulated it as widely as she could. The caption: hard at work.

  And her painting?

  Ignore the painting.

  There was nothing left to do so she rolled down her sleeves and dragged herself inside.

  The canvas, her, the world outside.

  And her painting.

  She picked up her brush and she tried to make the hills sing. They didn’t but she painted anyway.

  He came home and asked about her day.

  She shrugged. ‘It was as productive as any other one.’

  He studied the painting. ‘What exactly has changed?’

  Everything, she could have said, except it’s imperceptible to the world.

  ‘Nothing. Come on. Let’s have a bite to eat. Tell me, how’d you go today?’

  Boring, he could have said, I did nothing all day.

  Instead he said, ‘You wouldn’t believe the day I had …’

  THE DAM

  He had been counting on a light day.

  Back up. A moment, please. Let us set the scene.

  Twenty-seven, rugged, some whispered he was handsome too.

  Built like a tree trunk, he was used to lifting heavy things. He sheared sheep, dug holes in packed soil, he hoisted bales onto the elevated bed of large trucks. He knew customers by their first name, he asked about their children and parents, he coached one of the local teams.

  He was helping Mr Jones, a retiree who lived thirty k’s out, when Kelly called his name.

  ‘Jack, I need your help for a minute.’

  She was calm, no urgency.

  Must be someone needs help with their supplies. It can’t be the forklift. Every man and his dog can drive that round here.

  She led him through the shed and out to the back. They were alone.

  ‘There’s a body in the dam.’

  ‘A body in the dam.’

  He’d heard about so many bodies in dams in his life. There had been his classmate in school: seventeen years old, his whole life ahead of him. There had been the couple that had driven their car in on a dare. There had been the two-year-old a neighbour noticed was missing.

  So many dams and so little water in most of them. If there was one silver lining to the drought, it was that drownings were down. Never mind the increase in domestic violence, shootings and suicide.

  He did not ask her which dam. There was only one that was more than a puddle deep.

  He took the truck and drove, telling her to call triple zero. Already a crowd was forming at the side of the shed. He tried to push them from his mind but he could see them in the rear-view mirror. Once the police arrived, the crowd would be sent on their way.

  As he headed towards the dam, he thought about the day it had been dug. It had taken an entire day to make it deep enough to collect the run-off from the southern hills. It wasn’t a bad spot to cool off in the summer, if you were into that sort of thing but he had not been in for a swim since Kelly mentioned the snake she’d seen. A single sighting was easily dismissed but four sightings in a day? Guess I’ll give that swim a miss, thanks.

  Except today. Joel was facedown, his jeans darkened by the water. He had seen Joel earlier that morning and he’d seemed normal, upbeat. Getting out of the truck, Jack wondered if it was an accident. He tried out a few scenarios but every single one ended with Joel walking into the dam of his own accord. He had lost custody of his kid but that was last year and even Joel admitted that had been his own fault. You could say I was being a goose. Ordinarily Joel would have chosen more colourful words but there had been kids around at the time.

  And now he was in the dam.

  He watched Joel—the recently deceased—and wondered how darkness gets into a person’s mind, how it can torment a heart. He remembered an afternoon last summer when they had gone for drinks. Joel put them away till he collapsed on the floor and the bartender, a mate of theirs, had refused to serve him any more. Joel began to cry on the floor and none of them had known what to do. They could hoist him up, stuff him in a chair but what about his tears? They pretended they couldn’t see him, that Joel was a void at their feet.

  Joel facedown in the water, Joel crying, Joel admitting he was a goose.

  It was the middle of the drought. Dam levels were at record lows across the state.

  Jack couldn’t help thinking the waters were not low enough. If there had been no water at all, chances were his mate would still be alive.

  THE TRACTOR

  Three days and the clouds had hung over the hills. They were dark enough for rain but Joel had given up reading the weather by the signs. Once upon a time, clouds that dark would have brought rain. Now they did no more than spit on the land. The ground would green for a single day and then fade back to its lifeless brown. Those greys and browns were enough to weary a soul, especially for one so far from home.

  He had moved here for her. She had her p
arents and her siblings, and they would be able to lend a helping hand with the little one once he was born. I really want him to be brought up with family around. I want him to have cousins and grandparents and uncles and aunts. He had agreed it was a great idea. What was a person without their family and community?

  A person was as isolated as he was before her. He latched on to her as if she were a raft to steady him in turbulent seas. She relished the role at first but pretended to need her space. He inundated her with messages, with flowers, with outings, a proposal, a lavish wedding.

  They would be together for life.

  They bought a house in town, a street over from her folks, and moved in three months before her due date. They painted the baby’s room, they went shopping for clothes, they made lists of baby names. They would name him Oliver after her great-grandfather who briefly lived with her family when she was seven. He took me to gymnastics, he gave me pocket money, it was ice cream every day. He did my hair and it turned out neater than when it was done by Mum. He was the one I was closest to and sometimes those memories are so perfect that nothing was the same ever again.

  He nodded and said he understood even though he could not recall a similar period in his life. His parents had been absent on a good day, present on a bad day. He could hear their voices arguing, he could see their endless fights. He strained for an idyll, an interlude no matter how small, and the closest he could come was the only try he ever scored when he was eight. Such a fleeting memory with nothing significant to bookend this little scene on either side so finally it trembled and dissolved beneath the barest scrutiny.

  He hungered for her memories, for how she saw the world. He was the little kid in the lolly store, his face pushed to the glass, eyes wide at the interior of her life. There were family dinners, there was politeness, there was money set aside. There were trips to the coast that lasted the entire school break, there were shiny leather shoes and ribbons for her hair. She was always talking about ribbons and one day she showed him a box of them. I used to wear these as a girl. She remembered and spoke wistfully, and he remembered and kept the details to himself. His entire world was shrinking, shrinking, till it was as flat as a boot print, and as she spoke more and more, he spoke less and less, and she tried to coax him out, to pick at his silence with questions but he buried himself so deep that he couldn’t have spoken if he wanted to.