Billabong Bend

by Jennifer Scoullar

  ‘If you like,’ said Ric.

  ‘Can I have a bucket of gin and tonic?’ asked Nina.

  ‘Whatever you want,’ he said. ‘And you can tell me about your painted snipe while you empty your bucket. Deal?’

  ‘Deal.’ Nina managed a smile.

  ‘Oh, and one more thing,’ he said. ‘Try not to kill us all on the way home.’

  CHAPTER 9

  Ric looked around uneasily. He’d rarely seen the inside of the Angler’s Arms. The town of Drover’s Flat boasted two pubs, and their patrons were historically split along party lines. Dad and his irrigator mates frequented the Royal up the road. This hotel belonged to the dry-land farmers and cattlemen.

  ‘Is that thing real?’ Sophie pointed to the huge cod mounted on the wall.

  Ric nodded. This might not be his usual watering hole, but every­body knew the story of Moby Dick. ‘It was caught sixty years ago in the Bunyip, not far from here. A metre and a half long. Weighed more than fifty kilos, apparently, when they dragged it from the water.’

  ‘That’s sad.’ Sophie studied the mounted fish and the engraved plaque beneath. ‘It says there’s a reward,’ she said. ‘How can there be a reward if somebody’s already caught it?’

  ‘It’s for catching a bigger one,’ said Ric. ‘Ever since I was a kid, there’s been a reward on offer for landing a bigger cod than old Moby Dick here. Nobody’s ever claimed the prize.’

  ‘That’s because there are none left,’ said Nina.

  Sophie pushed her dessert across to Ric and rubbed her stomach. Half the slice of toffee cheesecake remained on the plate. ‘Eyes too big for your tummy, eh?’ He indicated the plate. ‘Want some, Nina?’

  ‘No thanks,’ she said. ‘It’s all yours.’ He sank his spoon into the creamy sweetness.

  Sophie held out her hand. ‘That will be two dollars, please.’

  ‘Two dollars?’ said Ric. ‘You’re going to charge me two dollars for a half-eaten piece of cake that I paid for in the first place?’

  ‘I need more money,’ said Sophie. ‘Pleeease?’

  Ric searched his pockets and dropped some coins into her hand. ‘Here. That’s the last of it.’

  Sophie ran off a little way, then returned and darted in to leave a kiss on his cheek. He rubbed the spot. It tingled with pleasure and pride. ‘You know what?’ he asked. Nina shook her beautiful head. ‘That’s the first time she’s kissed me. Six weeks I’ve had her, and I finally get a kiss.’

  ‘Reckon the pub makes more money from the games in the kids’ playroom than from anything else,’ said Nina, laughing. ‘Parents will do anything for a bit of peace.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there.’ Ric took a deep swig of beer, his gaze never leaving hers.

  ‘Those girls at the bar,’ said Nina. ‘They can’t keep their eyes off you.’

  Ric didn’t even glance in their direction. He was used to making an impression on strangers. There was only one person in the room he wanted to make an impression on, and she was sitting right there. He hadn’t known what to expect, coming back. Hadn’t known how he’d feel about the wild river girl, the one he’d worked so hard to drive from his thoughts. Years of forgetting had been undone at the first sight of Nina, shimmering like a bird of paradise in the Moree town hall. He wanted her back, pure and simple, Lockie or no Lockie.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ she said. ‘Men with children are such chick magnets. If I was to come in here with a kid, blokes would run a mile.’

  ‘I doubt that very much,’ he said.

  Her green eyes darted to the bar and back again. Gorgeous green eyes, flecked with amber. Filled with fire, like the rest of her. Nina might be sitting perfectly still, sipping her drink, but to Ric she was all restless sparkling energy. He felt the delicious unpredictability of her, the pent-up vitality that at times threatened to overwhelm her, and him too. He fought against touching the shining, auburn hair that sprang in waves from her temples and flowed to her bare brown shoulders. This grown-up Nina was a knockout. She bent forward, full breasts peeping from her open-necked shirt. The muscles in his abdomen clenched in frustration. Get a grip, Ric. Get a grip.

  A middle-aged couple came in and sat down at a nearby table. The man had his back to them, but the woman was casting surreptitious glances their way. All evening Ric had been keeping an eye on the door, looking out for Nina’s mum and dad, or for any familiar faces, friendly or otherwise. He wasn’t sure if he was pleased or sorry that so far there’d been no flash of recognition.

  ‘Who are they?’ He nodded towards the couple at the next table.

  Nina turned a little in her chair to get a better look. ‘Bert and Joan Turner,’ she whispered. ‘They run Shorthorns out at Wonga Station.’

  He remembered their names but not their faces. The woman put a hand on her husband’s arm and said something. He turned to stare, then got to his feet and approached them. ‘Evening, Nina.’

  ‘Hello Bert.’

  He acknowledged her with a curt nod, all the while looking Ric up and down. ‘I heard Max’s boy was back.’

  Ric stood up. ‘Mr Turner.’ He offered his hand. It hovered in mid-air, unshaken and the man crossed his arms across his barrel of a chest.

  ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you and your father. With you and all your mob,’ said Bert. ‘A lot of us floodplain fellas do.’

  ‘Sorry to hear —’

  ‘It’s not right what you’re doing,’ said Bert. ‘It might be legal, but it’s not right. You should understand how it affects us blokes at the end of the river. Max takes a thousand megs to fill his bloody great dams, that’s maybe two kilometres downstream that won’t flow when the rains come. Another cotton grower does the same thing, that’s another couple of k’s. In the end it won’t even reach my fence line, won’t fill the dry creeks and billabongs. What Max is doing? Well, it’s flat-out stealing food off my table and putting it on his.’

  ‘Bloody oath,’ said another man. A low murmur of approval rippled round the room.

  ‘Bert,’ called Joan. ‘Don’t make a scene.’

  ‘I’m just telling him how it is.’ Bert’s nostrils flared. ‘Without water laying on my country once in a while, it can’t grow. That’s how it evolved. It needs water to lay on it or else it’s just a wasteland.’ And with that he returned to his table.

  Ric sat down, shaking his head. ‘Jesus, he sure has a bee in his bonnet.’

  ‘Bert’s got a point,’ said Nina quietly.

  ‘And he made it loud and clear.’ Ric swigged his beer. ‘Let’s change the subject. Tell me about this bird of yours. This snipe.’

  ‘A painted snipe. Haven’t you heard of it?’

  Ric loved seeing the local waterbirds, but had never felt the need to know their names. He couldn’t even identify the different ducks on the dams at Donnalee. His father had tried in vain to teach him when he was a boy. Max was a keen hunter, something that Ric very much hoped would not come up in the evening’s conversation. His father viewed hunting as a cheap, simple way to supplement the family larder. He was an excellent shot and dispatched any wounded creature promptly. But it was still a brutal and bloody affair, and Ric had never wanted any part of it.

  Growing up, there was always game hanging in the coolroom under the house. Rabbits and hares, feral goats and pigs . . . and ducks. Nothing seemed to have changed. Ric was pretty sure the lamb roast Sophie had enjoyed so much last Sunday had actually been roast kid. As a conservationist, Nina could hardly object to Dad shooting pest animals, but the ducks were a different matter. And Sophie? Well, she wouldn’t understand any of it. She’d cried when Max wanted to kill one of the chickens. His tough heart had melted at her tears, and he’d solemnly promised not to harm so much as a feather on their heads. Sophie counted them each morning anyway, just to be sure. No, the secrets of the Donnalee coolroom must remain just that. He watched Nina with suspicion, as if she might somehow be reading his mind. ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘What’s so special about this snipe
of yours?’

  ‘It could be the key to saving Billabong. A very, very rare bird, and secretive. Really hard to spot. Today was the first time I’ve ever seen one, although Eva always said they were there.’ She finished her drink with an impatient gulp. ‘It’s listed as a nationally threatened species, and as an endangered migratory bird. It has a double listing. Isn’t that wonderful?’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘Under the act,’ said Nina, ‘it’s an offence to disturb the snipe’s habitat. Like, for example, constructing dams or draining wetlands. Eva’s old now. If anything happens, her son James will put Billabong on the market in a split-second, and auction off its water licences. He’d sell them to anybody. Imagine if a cotton grower got hold of the place.’ Ric nervously cleared his throat. ‘Proving there are painted snipe at Billabong would give it some serious protection. Conservation groups like Bush Heritage might even buy it, turn it into a sanctuary. That would be a dream come true. And I had to go and miss that shot. Can you see why I’m so upset?’

  ‘Yep,’ said Ric. ‘Now I understand.’ He understood a bit more than he’d bargained for. Nina and his father both had designs on Billabong Bend.

  ‘I really need to spend tomorrow searching for snipe,’ she said. ‘But Mum and Dad are coming over. And Lockie. It will be great to see them but it’s bloody bad timing.’

  Ric shifted in his seat, bracing against a sharp stab of jealousy. ‘What are they coming for?’

  ‘To help replace some fencing that stretches along the river in the bottom paddocks. I can’t keep going on the revegetation program until it’s done.’

  ‘How long are they staying?’

  ‘Lockie can only come for the day, but Mum and Dad are staying till Tuesday. If I’m lucky, Mum will clean the house.’

  He toyed with the salt shaker, spinning it with his fingers. ‘I could help you with the fencing.’

  ‘And what about your daughter?’

  ‘Sophie wouldn’t mind,’ he said. ‘All she does is watch telly anyway. Don’t know how she does it. She must be bored silly. I should have taken her on a proper holiday. Dreamworld or Sea World or something.’

  ‘I think it’s nice you brought her home,’ said Nina. ‘To meet Max, to see where you grew up.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘I probably couldn’t afford the theme park thing anyway.’ Ric regretted the words the second they were out. Way to go to impress a girl. He should be talking himself up, not down. There were enough obstacles in his path without inventing more. Lockie Carver, for starters. He’d heard Lockie was managing Macquarie Station, ninety kilometres upriver. That was a nice place, a big place, and profitable. Lockie would be doing all right for himself. And then there was Jim, Nina’s dad. He could imagine the look on her old man’s face if he came calling.

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Nina. ‘Sophie’s crazy about the horses. Why not bring her round one day for a riding lesson? After Mum and Dad go home,’ she added.

  ‘Scared of me meeting the family, Nina?’

  A blush travelled across her face and down her neck, down to the soft skin above her shirt. She glanced around the room, as if worried that someone might overhear their conversation.

  Sophie came back to the table. ‘Can we go now?’

  ‘Run out of money?’ asked Ric. She yawned and nodded. ‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you home.’

  Half an hour later, and the squeaky old station wagon pulled into the drive at Red Gums. Sophie was asleep. ‘I’ll walk you in,’ he said to Nina. They strolled towards the house. Stars lit the sky in a silver blaze of brilliance, though the moon was just a promise, a faint glow on the eastern horizon. Ric didn’t want the evening to end. He was tempted to slip an arm about her waist.

  Nina’s face was in shadow, but his pulse beat with awareness, as if she stood in the brightest sunshine. They stopped on the porch and she turned towards him. The smooth outline of her hair showed in the starlight, her head tilted up to him. How perfect she was, too lovely to be real. Those luminous eyes, the line of her brows, the curve of her lips. Was she feeling it too? Had she forgiven him for staying away? He wanted to explain, to tell her about the trick played on him all those years ago. No, it wasn’t the right time. He would sound petty, self-serving.

  ‘Goodnight,’ she said.

  ‘Goodnight, Nina. And thanks for today.’ She waited for a few moments. What for? What should he do? He was usually so self-assured with women. Nina turned her back and went into the house. He stood a while in the darkness, longing for her, aching for her. Trembling with the memory of that blinding original love, when he’d first believed anything was possible. When he’d first believed in something more than himself.

  CHAPTER 10

  Ric lay in the airless bedroom, gazing out the window, as night slipped away from morning, taking the stars with it. An orange band already outlined the trees along the river, warning of the scorcher to come. He’d barely slept. When he had finally nodded off at piccaninny dawn, the big red cock had crowed, again and again, waking him and throwing his mind back into wonder and turmoil. It didn’t matter how many times he went over things in his head, he always came to the same conclusion. There’d be no leaving at the end of the month when Sophie went home. He wanted Nina, and Nina was here. For the time being, at least, that meant staying on at Donnalee and working for his father, something that he’d vowed all his life never to do.

  It wouldn’t be for long. He’d find work on another station soon enough, get some money together. It would be a big adjustment, though, staying in one place. Ric had never felt at home back in Italy, but since returning to Australia he hadn’t seemed to fit in either. So he’d drifted, always restless, always searching for a place to belong. He had an itinerant work history; fly-in fly-out jobs at mines and oil rigs, never sticking at anything for long. If he was to have a chance with Nina, that had to change. Maybe he’d rent a little place in town, put down some roots? But that was getting ahead of himself. Nobody would be hiring in this drought. Until then, he’d have to make the best of things here.

  On one level it made perfect sense, it added up to a reasonable plan, a practical one. But on another level, the decision to stay disturbed Ric more than he cared to admit. Was this how it began? Wanting something so much that a man sacrificed that first little bit of his soul to get it? Not even noticing at first, maybe, because it was such a small piece. Or maybe because doing it got him closer to what he wanted, he reckoned it was worth it.

  Years ago Dad had called him wild. Ric asked him, ‘How am I wild, Dad? Because I don’t want to be like you? Don’t want to stay at Donnalee and grow cotton?’ His father had muttered something about how one day he’d understand. Had that day come? Ric hoped sincerely that it hadn’t.

  The sun flared above the trees. Ric got up, pulled on shorts and a singlet and went outside. The heat was building and the whole world was thirsting for rain. He pulled on his boots and headed down to the river, like he’d done so many times before. Like he’d done when he was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen years old and had hungered for Nina the way he did now. Like in the days when he’d strung hats in trees to summon her.

  Some silly part of him believed she might be waiting, but there was nobody there. He was all alone with the muddy ditch of a river. Any kingfishers had fled this ruined place long ago. Ric slipped down the washaway to the water’s edge and stuck a stick into the sludge as a marker. With no vegetation as a buffer, the Donnalee side of the bank was collapsing into the water, clogging it with silt. Was this really the same place where he and Nina had dived and swum as children? He closed his eyes, fighting off an overwhelming sense of loneliness and loss. The contrast between the past and present was heartbreakingly clear.

  He walked back to the house, unable to shake the sadness that was settling on him like a thick layer of dust, wanting suddenly to see Sophie. She wasn’t in her room. She wasn’t in the kitchen having breakfast. She wasn’t on the faded couch watching television.
He went out the back and looked around. Where was she? Ric stooped low and ventured beneath the verandah. He paused while his eyes adjusted to the dim light and soon objects emerged from the gloom. Nothing much had changed since he was a boy. It was like a time capsule. There was the old rigid inflatable boat that he’d bought for a song when he was sixteen. Nothing wrong with it, apart from a cracked hull that Dad had been going to help him mend. Maybe he’d fix it up for Sophie. Festoons of cobwebs brushed his face. Logic told him that she wouldn’t be here, that she’d never brave the dark and the spiders, but curiosity made him forge ahead. He picked his way around an assortment of bricks and planks and pipes until he reached the rusted steel doors, right at the back.

  The coolroom was nothing more than an old refrigerated truck body that his father had converted. Pretty clever, really. Ric slid back the bolt, relishing the rush of cold air on his face as the double doors swung open and automatically turned on the light. He stepped inside, into the coolness that was tainted with something else. The faint, sweet tang of death. A chest freezer stood in the corner. A row of eskies and wooden boxes were stacked along the wall, together with an assortment of homemade fishing rods. A butchered sheep carcass and a side of bacon dangled from hooks in the roof. But then, knowing Dad, it was more likely to be a goat and a side of feral pig, both of which could be found running wild in the neglected paddocks of Billabong Bend.

  That wasn’t all. Two ducks hung from the roof by their necks, and two other birds that he didn’t recognise – big black and white ones, with domed heads like Chinese geese. Ric frowned, remembering the shots fired, the ones that had scared away Nina’s rare snipe. He touched the unplucked birds. Fresh. He might have guessed it. His father was almost certainly the mystery hunter in the wetlands yesterday. Ric rubbed his temple. The hard kernel of a headache was taking root deep in his skull. Damn Max.

  Ric backed out of the coolroom and found his way, blinking, into the light. Sophie was running towards him, wearing a radiant smile. ‘Dad, come and see.’ She pulled him into the outside laundry. Max was standing beside the old incubator. It was a homemade contraption consisting of a cupboard with air holes top and bottom, a wire rack for eggs, a metal dish for water, a thermometer and two light bulbs for heat. He remembered when Max made it for Mum. She’d always hated how the cock birds harassed her hens for sex. ‘My poor girls,’ she’d say. ‘Never a moment’s peace.’ In the end she refused to have a rooster on the place, so Max had made her the incubator. Whenever they needed more chickens, friends gave them fertile eggs and Mum could hatch them out herself.