‘You’ll get no arguments from me,’ said Lockie. ‘Out Timboon way they planted ten thousand trees to reduce salinity and discovered they could claim carbon credits for them. Talk about a bonus. Hard to get your head around all the new opportunities sometimes.’ They turned into the track by the dam paddock. Monty pounded along the fence like a mad thing, keeping pace with the truck, looking for all the world like he still belonged on the racetrack. ‘One thing I do know,’ said Lockie. ‘Those bloody cotton growers are ruining it for everybody. What’s the point of busting a gut to conserve water when those guys waste ten times more than we can save? They’ll put us all out of business before they’re through.’
Nina nodded. She looked at Lockie’s rugged face in profile, the ginger stubble on his chin, the thoughtful deep-set eyes, the copper hair brightened by the sun. A handsome man, and a good and clever one. Why didn’t her pulse pound for him, the way it did for Ric? Something was missing between them lately, some sort of passion. Like they’d grown too comfortable with each other and had stopped trying.
The truck pulled up at the house and they both got out. Lockie took off his hat and turned the hose in the yard on a fraction. He drank from the end and then let it trickle over his head and face, wetting his hat before plonking it back on his head.
‘Want a proper cold drink?’ asked Nina. ‘One from the fridge?’
‘I’d better get back,’ he said. ‘We’re one man down now, remember?’
‘Thanks, Lockie. I owe you one.’
‘More than one actually.’ He kicked aimlessly at the bone-dry ground. ‘I heard Ric Bonelli’s back.’
‘That’s right,’ said Nina. ‘He’s moved in across the river . . . with his daughter, Sophie.’
‘Yeah, his daughter. I heard about that too.’ Despite his protestation about having to get back, he seemed in no hurry. What was he waiting for? But she knew. Of course she did. She just didn’t want to have that conversation right now. She didn’t know what she’d say.
‘He’s got quite a reputation apparently,’ said Lockie.
‘Your point?’ She could hear the defiant edge to her voice. ‘I can look after myself.’
‘Course you can.’ He pulled her close and ran a finger down her dirty cheek. ‘Are you coming next weekend for the rodeo? I’ve got tickets for Troy Cassar-Daley Saturday night.’
She ducked from his arms. ‘But the organic field day is next Saturday. You said you’d come. I’m doing a presentation on pecans.’
‘Shit, I forgot. Can’t you get out of it?’
‘I don’t want to get out of it.’
He groaned and pulled her back to him. ‘Okay, I’ll come. Pity though. Those tickets are scarce as hen’s teeth.’
‘Go,’ she said. ‘Don’t waste them.’
‘You sure?’ He raised his brows, inspecting her face. ‘You won’t mind?’
‘Nope.’ Nina looked away. Lockie gently turned her chin and kissed her, long and slow. She closed her eyes, but the kiss was a dud. Disappointment about the field day, or something more?
He climbed behind the wheel. ‘See you. Fly safe.’
The truck took off, crawling its way around the house so it didn’t raise too much dust. Nina watched it go, turning Lockie’s words over in her mind. Ric had quite a reputation, did he? Well, so what? She shook her head to clear it and hurried inside. What Ric did had nothing to do with her any more.
CHAPTER 12
It was after six o’clock by the time Nina got to the nursing home. Eva Langley was sitting up in bed with a thermometer in her mouth. It felt like an intrusion to enter the room, but when Nina crept in Eva greeted her with bright eyes.
‘What a lovely surprise. Your timing’s perfect.’ Eva’s voice was as strong as ever, low and tuneful. Her hair was neatly done, and in her beaded cream nightgown she looked the picture of elegance. What a relief. She actually looked better than last time. An unopened packet of liquorice allsorts sat on the corner table. Seeing them reminded Nina that she’d forgotten to bring some herself.
A nurse emerged from the small ensuite. ‘Must be your day for visitors, Eva,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring in another chair.’
‘And could you order an extra dinner, Vera? That will make three.’
The nurse nodded. She smoothed the beautiful aqua bedspread over Eva’s knees, the one that featured azure kingfishers. ‘Chicken or fish?’
Nina looked at Eva enquiringly.
‘It’s one of Pemberley’s perks,’ said Eva. ‘My visitors are entitled to free meals. So what will it be, chicken or fish? I’d have the fish if I were you. The chicken’s a little dry. We’ll have to eat in the room. Darned doctor won’t let me out of bed until tomorrow.’
Eva had said three dinners. Who else was here? James? She couldn’t stand being stuck in a room with him, not even for a few minutes. ‘I don’t want to impose,’ said Nina. ‘How about I come back in the morning?’
‘You’ve only just arrived. Vera, she’ll have the fish.’
What to do? Stay and put up with James? Or go and disappoint the dear old friend whom she’d just flown an hour to see? ‘You look well, Eva,’ said Nina. ‘I was worried about you.’
‘Bit of a sore ankle is all. Don’t know why everybody makes such a fuss. You’d think I’d broken my hip. And yet nobody’s concerned when I die of boredom every day.’
Vera returned with a second chair and set up a folding tray table. It would be rude to go now. Nina pulled a chair over next to the bed. May as well make the best of it. Perhaps she’d learn something useful in her mission to buy Billabong Bend. Perhaps she could even change James’s mind. Although he wouldn’t admit to wanting to sell the place, not in front of his mother.
Nina had just convinced herself that this chance meeting with James was a good thing when a man walked in the door, carrying a scruffy duffel bag. Not the man she’d expected at all. Freeman. With a shock of joy she recognised the gentle, gap-toothed smile on his grizzled, bearded face. It was many years since his ramshackle houseboat had meandered down the Bunyip. These days the low flows deterred all but the lightest river traffic. She’d sometimes wondered if Freeman was still alive. He’d seemed ancient even back when she and Ric were children. But rumours persisted of his turning up here and there, collecting river stories and telling them in return. And now here he was, large as life, screwing up his hat and shuffling around Eva’s little room.
‘Nina.’ His old eyes twinkled. ‘It’s been a long time.’ Freeman was even taller than she remembered, and seemed to have hunched down to fit the room, like he somehow didn’t belong under a roof. The sleeves of his faded work shirt were rolled up over still-powerful forearms, and he wore a buttonless vest. What looked like a cut-off stirrup leather held up his ragged moleskin trousers. By contrast, his boots were shiny and new, as if purchased especially for the occasion.
Nina laughed and threw her arms round his shabby shoulders. ‘I don’t believe it. Eva, I didn’t know you and Freeman were friends.’
‘There’s a lot you young folks don’t know.’ She smiled, and the smile stayed around her eyes. ‘Take my boy James, for instance. So very sceptical. He mistakes being cynical for being wise.’
Freeman upended the three glasses sitting on the table by the water jug. He rummaged around in his bag, glanced briefly at the door, then extracted a bottle of dry ginger ale and another of brandy. Eva’s eyes lit up as he poured her a generous drink. ‘They treat us like children here,’ she said, pouting like a girl.
Nina took a sip of the drink Freeman offered, and a delicious wave of heat moved through her. An orderly pushed in backwards through the door with a trolley of dinner trays. The three giggled and hid their drinks. Soon they were eating and laughing like old friends should. They were no longer in a room at a nursing home. This was a party, a heartfelt reunion.
‘Tell Nina about your project,’ said Eva.
‘I collect river stories.’ Freeman’s ears were turning red. ‘Same as always.’
‘He’s turned professional,’ said Eva. ‘Documenting life right throughout the Murray-Darling basin. People, plants, animals – everything. Photographing and recording their stories. Piecing together a priceless history of our river heritage.’
Freeman’s shy smile could not disguise his pride. ‘I write down what folks say, that’s all.’
‘Don’t be so modest,’ scolded Eva. ‘Freeman’s an author now. He sold his Murrumbidgee stories to a publisher. The book’s coming out next year, and they want one on the Kingfisher after that.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ said Nina. ‘What’s it called, Freeman, so I can buy it?’
‘Songline Stories.’ The flush deepened beneath his dark complexion. ‘Beats me what they want with my old yarns, but they seem to like them. Even paid me. Enough to buy a computer, and a little runabout to tow behind the boat.’ His smile turned into a grin. ‘Catfish, I call her. Runs a treat up and down the shallow reaches where Warriuka can’t get any more.’
‘Freeman’s been here all week,’ said Eva. ‘Bringing brandy and sweets, videoing me and my memories on his, his . . . show her, Freeman.’ He pulled out a camcorder. ‘On that,’ she said. ‘So they won’t be forgotten. Here I was thinking nobody wants to listen. Then Freeman arrives and does nothing but listen, day after day.’ She beamed at him. ‘It’s been such glorious fun.’
‘And I’ll go on listening, Eva,’ he said. ‘Listen for as long as it takes. Listen till you’re done.’
Nina was intrigued. ‘How do you decide where to go next?’
‘It’s not so easy any more, what with the drought, and all those dams and bridges. They’ve tamed the rivers something shocking. Times I’ve even had to truck Warriuka from place to place, but I always wind up back on the songlines.’
‘Songlines?’ asked Nina.
‘Spirit pathways of souls who wandered Australia in the beginning,’ said Eva. ‘Singing out names of what they saw, of birds and trees. Of mountains and forests . . . everything. Singing the world into being, like Aslan did in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.’
‘Do you really believe that?’ Nina hadn’t heard this particular creation story before. Her parents were Anglican, and proud of it.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Eva. ‘I’m an animist. Not only people have souls, Nina. It’s arrogant to think it. All of us do, animals and plants as well. So do rocks and rivers. Even wind and shadows. These spirits exist before we’re born, and remain after we die. They’re eternal. It’s the circle of life, like in the song from The Lion King.’
Nina smiled. Sophie was nine and Eva was eighty-nine, but they both loved their movie allusions.
‘What about you, Freeman?’ asked Nina. ‘What do you believe?’
‘I’m a great churchgoer.’ He chuckled. ‘The rivers, they’re my church.’
Nina laughed. ‘It’s very exciting,’ she said. ‘I can’t wait to read your book.’
‘I could write your story, Nina,’ he said. ‘Yours, and your family’s. I’ll come by when the river rises.’
Nina finished her drink and asked for another. What an extraordinary evening. A swift shaft of shame hit her as she realised that up until now she’d been patronising Eva. Humouring her fantasy of going home. Coming here full of pity. The true depth and breadth of this woman’s life had been as invisible to her as those songlines.
‘Eva,’ said Nina. ‘When you’re feeling better . . .’
‘You’re not going to badger me about Billabong again, are you?’ she said in a cross voice. ‘That place will be sold over my dead body.’
‘No,’ said Nina quickly. ‘No, I was wondering . . . would you like me to take you back there for a visit?’
‘Yes.’ Colour rushed to Eva’s pale cheeks. ‘It’s high time I went home.’
Nina blinked to dam the tears that hovered behind her eyes. ‘I’d better go,’ she said. ‘Leave you to your stories.’ She embraced them, first Freeman, then Eva.
She slipped out the door, and listened. For a moment the room was quiet, then the murmur of conversation built again. The sound of Eva’s musical voice followed her down the hallway. Nina swallowed hard, and hoped she’d have the courage to keep her promise.
CHAPTER 13
Ric crept into the laundry as morning fired the eastern sky. Sophie was still asleep, curled up in blankets on the dusty floor beside the incubator. She looked so tiny. He didn’t know what to do, what to say, how to tell her. The early-morning phone call was seared into his memory, each word, each dreadful pause loaded with meaning.
‘Rachael took an overdose of Valium. She’s been admitted to hospital.’ Hilary Harper’s voice had sounded faraway and unreal.
‘But she was getting better,’ he said. ‘She was getting ready to have Sophie home.’
‘Well, she’s suffered a setback. A serious one, I’m afraid.’
‘How serious?’
‘Rachael’s on a respirator. She’ll recover, but it was touch and go there for a while. As her social worker, I’m hoping to readmit her to the psychiatric clinic. You’ll need to keep Sophie longer than we first thought.’
‘That’s impossible,’ said Ric. ‘What about school? I’m not set up this end for a kid.’
‘Ric, I don’t think you quite understand. This wasn’t an accidental overdose. She’s in no position to care for a child.’
‘Can’t you find somebody else?’ he’d said. ‘A relative or something?’
‘You’re her closest relative,’ said Hilary. ‘And she’s already settled there. Let me contact the principal at Drover’s Central School. I’ll forward the documents you’ll need to enrol Sophie.’ Ric had been speechless. ‘Rachael’s not well enough to talk to you or her daughter right now. The minute she is, I’ll let you know.’
And that had been that. He’d lain in bed for a while, trying to get his head around the news. Then he’d pulled on a pair of shorts and crept into Sophie’s room. Her bed was empty, but he’d known where to find her. She’d barely left the laundry in the two days since the eggs had arrived. She even ate her meals there. ‘I can’t have dinner in the kitchen any more,’ she’d explained. ‘What if the baby swans hatch?’ So Max had set up a card table in the corner, with a cloth and vase of red geraniums picked fresh each morning. He delivered breakfast, lunch and dinner, plus snacks. Last night Ric had sat up with Max and Sophie, playing snap and poker, using matchsticks to bet with. For once the television went unwatched, and now the laundry stank of cigars.
Might as well get it over with. Ric squatted down beside Sophie, and tapped her shoulder. No response. He gathered the bundle of girl and blankets into his arms, and carried her into the house. Sophie stirred and rubbed her eyes as he laid her on her bed. ‘My eggs,’ she said sleepily. ‘I have to get back to my eggs.’
‘There’s something I have to tell you first,’ he said. ‘It’s about your mum.’
Sophie sat up blinking. ‘She’s coming, isn’t she? I can show her the eggs. Do you think they’ll hatch before she gets here? I hope so.’
‘She’s not coming, Soph.’ Ric hesitated. How much should he tell her? Why hadn’t he asked Hilary about how to break the news? ‘She’s back in hospital.’
‘I don’t believe you.’ Tears welled in her eyes. ‘I want to talk to her.’
‘You can’t right now,’ said Ric. ‘She’s too sick.’
‘Mum said she was getting better.’ Her breath came in short spurts, her eyes reproving. ‘In her last letter Mum said I’d be going home soon, that things would be different.’
Ric swallowed hard. He wondered, not for the first time, how long Rachael had been ill. What Sophie had seen. Up till now, each time he’d tried to understand Sophie’s world, she’d pushed him away.
‘You know your mum better than I do.’ Ric moved slowly towards her, hand outstretched, like with a startled colt. ‘Does she get sick a lot?’
‘Mum gets sick all the time,’ said Sophie. ‘Just when I think she’s okay, she get
s bad again. I don’t know what to do. Sometimes I think she gets so sad because of me, that it’s all my fault.’ She collapsed in a sudden flood of tears. Ric reached her in a stride and swept her up in a protective embrace.
Max came in wearing a dressing-gown, his face a mask of concern. ‘What’s wrong with Sophia?’
Ric carried her to the lounge room, Max trailing after. He laid the weeping girl on the couch and sat beside her. Max put on an encouraging smile. He pulled a chair close and sat down too.
‘Sophie’s mother had a relapse.’ Ric’s voice was low. ‘She’s back in hospital. Sophie can’t go home next week.’
Comprehension dawned in Max’s eyes and his smile grew more tender. ‘Your mama, she’ll be fine. Lots of good people to look after her in a hospital, eh? She needs you to be brave for her.’ Sophie’s crying slowed to a sob. ‘Can you do that?’ he asked. ‘Can you be brave for your mama?’ Sophie nodded solemnly and Max offered his hand. ‘Let’s go check on your eggs. I think today, they’re going to hatch. Maybe we can take photos of the babies to send to your mama? To cheer her up.’
‘Do you really think they’ll hatch today?’ asked Sophie in a small voice.
‘Yes, but maybe not all of them. You see, mama swan, she lays one egg every day. Ten eggs, that’s ten days. It takes a bit longer for those last eggs to hatch.’
‘Can we go and check on them now?’
‘Sure, we’ll go check, and then we’ll have breakfast,’ said Max. ‘The three of us. I’ll make your favourite omelette. Would you like that?’ Sophie nodded and managed the faintest smile. Ric looked at Max, brows raised in admiration.
In the laundry Max opened the incubator and Sophie gasped. A wet, wobble-headed chick stared from among a pile of broken shell. It was like no cygnet Ric had ever seen. Pinkish head and neck and dirty-white body. Big black bill with a little yellow egg tooth at the tip. Its squashed-up legs and feet were yellow too. Sophie leaned in close and it began a loud peeping. ‘Don’t worry,’ she cooed. ‘Mummy’s here.’ Sophie reached in and took the baby in her hand, raised it close to her face. It peeped louder and nibbled her nose with its tiny bill. She giggled. ‘That tickles. Dad, take a photo for Mum.’
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