Billabong Bend

by Jennifer Scoullar

  Mum heaved a relieved sigh. ‘And Ric? Do we have your word too?’ He nodded assent. ‘Good. Nina, you keep them to it.’

  ‘Sure, Mum.’

  ‘Well, you’d better all get out of here, get down that river and find Max.’

  The three of them trooped from the kitchen. Nina looked back and saw her mother’s dark figure framed in the bright window. She’d forgotten what a fine peacemaker Mum could be.

  CHAPTER 26

  They didn’t find Max that night. They didn’t find him the next day either. Nor did the state emergency service, or police search and rescue, or the hundreds of volunteers who combed the Billabong wetlands. It was as if he’d vanished from the face of the earth. Nina wearily washed her hands at the outside tap and followed Ric inside. Another fruitless trip down the river. They were wearing their frayed nerves on the outside of their skin. The slightest thing provoked an argument.

  Nina slumped into a chair. Two full days had now passed since Max went missing. Two days of torment, of not knowing. The little town of Drover’s Flat talked of little else, and was alive with speculation, some of it hateful.

  ‘I won’t be able to help search tomorrow,’ Nina said. ‘It’s Eva’s funeral.’

  ‘Want me to come?’

  ‘No, you stay here. Keep looking for Max.’

  Ric nodded. ‘I’ll grab a coffee.’ He put his hat on the table. ‘Then it’ll be time to pick Sophie up from the bus.’ He gestured towards her with the kettle, brows raised. Nina nodded, studying him while he filled it, wondering what was going on in his head. How would it feel to have your father lost on the river, maybe hurt, maybe dead? She couldn’t imagine. They sat without speaking until the water boiled. What had happened between them that night at the river felt very far away.

  ‘The days are hot,’ he said as he made the coffee. ‘But these nights get chilly.’

  ‘Did Max have a coat?’

  ‘I guess. It’s not hanging by the door.’

  ‘It might be hard to spot a man,’ said Nina. ‘But we can’t even find the tinny. It doesn’t make any sense.’ Ric pursed his lips together in a hard-edged frown. ‘What?’ asked Nina.

  ‘It does if someone hid it. That boat’s just a little thing. Fit easy into a tangle, or under a cooba thicket.’

  ‘But why would Max hide the boat?’

  ‘Max wouldn’t.’

  Nina wrestled with the implication. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Just what half the town’s thinking.’ Ric lowered his eyes. ‘That maybe your dad knows more than he’s letting on.’

  It took a while for the full impact of his words to hit home. Her muscles coiled into knots. ‘Get out.’

  ‘Nina —’

  ‘Get out!’ She leaped from the chair, her heart racing, her breath coming in little pants.

  He pushed his chair back and got slowly to his feet. ‘I didn’t mean —’

  ‘How could you say that?’ Her voice rose to a frantic cry. ‘How could you think it? Dad told us what happened. You were there.’

  He couldn’t even meet her eyes. ‘I’d better go.’ He put on his hat and pushed out the flywire door.

  ‘Yes, go!’ She worked the promise ring free and hurled it at him. He stopped to pick it up. ‘Go and think your horrible thoughts somewhere else. Go, and don’t come back.’

  As the sound of Ric’s engine faded, she subsided slowly into her chair. Jinx curled up next to her. So Ric thought Dad was hiding something and, according to him, half the town thought so too. Poor Dad. Poor Mum. Tears were threatening but she wouldn’t let them fall. ‘Come on, Jinx,’ she said. ‘We’re going to town.’

  ‘The police?’ asked Nina. ‘Oh, Dad.’ She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. ‘What happened?’

  ‘They interviewed him.’ Mum’s face was drawn. ‘They drove out all the way from Moree this morning. Two detectives.’

  ‘Smart bastards, they were,’ said Dad. ‘Asked me about Max going missing. Reckoned I had something to do with it.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Nina. ‘They didn’t – they couldn’t.’

  ‘Too right they did.’ Nina looked at her mother and received a confirming nod. ‘Tried to put words in my mouth,’ he said.

  ‘But you didn’t do anything,’ said Nina.

  ‘The way they see it, I did plenty,’ said Dad. ‘Followed Max down the river, threw around accusations, started a punch-up.’ He pointed to his battered face. ‘This didn’t help any. And since bloody Max has gone and disappeared, there’s no way to prove that I copped the worst of the fight.’ His face cracked into a sardonic smile. ‘First time in my life I’m keen to see that man’s face and he goes and disappears on me. How do you like that?’ Nina sank down on the couch, stomach churning. The long-standing hatred between Max and her father was common knowledge. People were bound to talk.

  There was no getting around it. Until Max was found and Dad was cleared she’d have to stay well away from Ric Bonelli. Tears welled behind her eyes and she knuckled them fiercely away. She needed to be strong, for Dad, for Mum. Maybe she and Ric could put all this behind them down the road. But a nagging little voice whined in her ear, and wouldn’t let her be. Some things, it whispered, there’s just no getting past.

  She wanted to shout, to swear, to scream out loud. Why hadn’t she seen this coming? It was her fault – her pitiful failure to stand on her own two feet. If she could just go back in time . . . There were so many points where this disaster could have been averted. When Mum had offered to come over, she should have said no, I’m fine. When Lockie went to check the river pumps, she should have insisted on doing it herself. When Dad wanted the keys, she should have fought harder to stop him. She should have done something, anything. But instead she’d waited around like a stunned mullet, while somewhere down the river Dad was tearing all their worlds apart.

  It was time to take back control of her life. She scrolled through her phone until she found the bank manager’s number. ‘Trevor? It’s Nina Moore. The auction for Eva’s place is coming up soon. Tell me about this dummy bidder business.’

  ‘Not a dummy bidder,’ said Trevor. ‘A buyer’s agent. They’re used when a purchaser doesn’t want to be physically present at the auction.’

  ‘Why would that happen?’

  ‘Lots of reasons,’ said Trevor. ‘The buyer might be a celebrity, wanting to protect his privacy. Or he may have previously negotiated to buy the property, for example, and the deal fell through. If he shows up himself, the vendor knows exactly how much he was prepared to pay last time. So he sends an agent.’

  ‘Or the seller might have a totally unjustified grudge against the buyer.’

  Trevor chuckled. ‘That too. These types of personal conflicts are surprisingly common, Nina. Ex-husbands and wives, family disputes – buyers often give an agent power of attorney to bid on their behalf.’

  ‘So if my agent winds up being the highest bidder?’ asked Nina. ‘What then?’

  ‘When it comes to signing the contract, all secrecy is lost,’ said Trevor. ‘Your agent must inform the auctioneer that he acts on behalf of a client, and name you.’

  ‘But you said James won’t sell to me?’

  ‘At that point he’ll have no choice. Legally, once the hammer falls, the highest bidder is the purchaser. The auctioneer can’t ignore your power of attorney simply because the vendor doesn’t like you. James might scream blue murder, but he couldn’t lawfully renege on the deal.’

  ‘That’s settled, then. I’ll send an agent. The auction’s in two weeks. Are you sure you’ll have my deposit back by then?’

  ‘It’ll be ready and waiting, along with that ten per cent loan increase we talked about. You never know, Nina. Property prices are way down with this drought and Billabong’s pretty run-down. I reckon you’re in with a good chance.’

  Next she rang Lockie. ‘You miss me terribly and want me back, right, Nine?’ She recognised the pain behind his attempt at humour. It made it hard to ask for t
he favour. Maybe she had a nerve, but she was also pretty desperate. Nina steered their conversation away from the personal. It wasn’t hard. Max’s disappearance was on the tip of everyone’s tongue.

  ‘I hear Jim’s been interviewed,’ said Lockie. ‘That stinks. You’ve had a rough trot, what with your dad and Eva, and losing out on that contract.’

  ‘Were you really sorry that I lost Billabong?’

  ‘Damn straight I was,’ he said. ‘The place goes up for sale soon. Maybe you should throw your hat in the ring.’

  ‘It was a stretch buying Billabong from Eva in the first place, and that’s when she was giving me a special deal. I’ve probably got Buckley’s at open auction.’

  ‘You never know,’ said Lockie. ‘That old house is derelict. Fences need replacing. The whole place is neglected. Add in the drought and the weeds, I don’t reckon there’ll be many takers. Not everybody loves a run-down swamp as much as you do.’ He paused. ‘I’d help if I could.’

  ‘Maybe you can,’ said Nina. ‘Could you go to the auction in my place? You know, bid for me, so James doesn’t cotton on. I know it’s a lot to ask, after all that’s happened . . .’

  ‘Reckon I could,’ he said. ‘So you got the loan extension?’

  ‘Yep.’ She was unable to conceal the pride in her voice.

  ‘That’s bloody beautiful news,’ he said. ‘Bloody beautiful. You deserve that place, Nina. The way you’ve cared for it all your life. Seems only fitting you should have it now Eva’s gone.’

  His words were so sincere, so heartfelt, and she felt a great rush of gratitude. Friends like Lockie were few and far between, and she loved him, she truly did. Maybe not the way she loved Ric, but could she base her whole future on one night and a bunch of memories from when she was just a kid? She pushed the images of her and Ric at the river from her mind. Perhaps it was time to get over Ric Bonelli, once and for all.

  ‘I wish . . .’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to say it. Sometimes I wish it too.’

  CHAPTER 27

  ‘I won’t go.’ Sophie overturned her bowl with a sweep of her arm. ‘I hate you, I want Poppi.’

  ‘Sophie . . .’ The girl ran from the room, the geese chasing after her. He looked around the kitchen. At the dishes piled high in the sink. At the grimy benches and poo-stained linoleum floor. At the cracked cereal bowl and spilled milk. ‘Christ almighty.’

  In the fortnight since Max’s disappearance, Sophie’s attitude to school had taken a turn for the worse. In fact she’d only gone for two days. Two lousy days. In a way he couldn’t blame her. Everyone knew kids could be cruel, and in this case that was an understatement. It wasn’t just that she was the new kid. The problem had always been Sophie herself. She came across as brittle and defensive, even at home. I’ll get you before you get me was her game plan. In the rough and tumble of the playground, this smart-alec attitude invited an unrelenting stream of taunts and hostility. And she was easily provoked, often into physical fights. Maybe Rachael had never disciplined the kid. Maybe Donnalee had made her run wild. Or maybe she’d simply inherited her grandfather’s short temper. Whatever the reason, it had made it tough for her at school, right from the start.

  And now this. Speculation was running high in Drover’s Flat about Max’s fate, and wild rumours abounded. Rumours that Max had met with foul play. Rumours that it was payback for stealing water in the middle of this terrible drought. Rumours that renegade dry-land farmers had made an example of him to intimidate the irrigators, to drive them out.

  Sophie, of course, didn’t understand any of it. All she understood was that her beloved Poppi was missing, and that kids at school were laughing about him and saying he was dead. Some had even said that he deserved it. How in hell’s name was she supposed to put up with that? When Ric was at school there’d been mates, kids on his side when things got tough. But it wasn’t like that for Sophie. She didn’t have a friend in the world at Drover’s. Only those damned geese . . . and Nina. She and Nina were a lot alike: stubborn and independent; obsessed with birds and horses. Those riding lessons had been the best thing ever for Sophie. But it was more than that. Nina had taken Sophie under her wing in all sorts of ways: helping her with homework, teaching her to sketch the wildlife on the river, getting her to open up about her life with Rachael. Encouraging her to go to school. His daughter listened to Nina. Well, he could really use her advice now. Trouble was, Nina wasn’t talking to him.

  And that wasn’t his only problem. He was fast running out of money. The official search for Max had been called off. Ric still combed the river daily using a borrowed boat, but as more time passed with no sign . . . well, the possibility that Dad was dead loomed larger and larger. Ric didn’t want to think about what that meant. He could hold his grief at bay, for Sophie’s sake. But he couldn’t avoid the practical considerations any longer. What did he know about running a cotton farm? Not enough.

  For the first time, Ric took an interest in the calendar on the wall. Weeks of the growing season had been crossed off progressively in red ink. The last cross was labelled week 20. He looked around, found the texta and marked off another two weeks. That brought it up to date – early autumn, week 22 of a 26-week growing season. He’d toured the farm yesterday, filling in time. The defoliant had done its job. The fields of cotton were shutting down, hunching over. Leaves already curling, mottling yellow as they ran out of nitrogen. Dotted here and there with puffs of white as early bolls burst open, weighing down the dying stems. Soon more and more would ripen and split, exposing the snowy bounty of fibre inside. Harvest was just weeks away. Dad had been so proud of this year’s crop, the best ever grown at Donnalee.

  Sixteen years since Ric had experienced a harvest. How he’d dreaded that time of year. Dad working them from dawn to dusk, and always on the brink of a meltdown. The one saving grace was the dozen or so unsuspecting backpackers that made up most of their crew. There was a lot of room for error with picking – it was a complex process, and the casuals had to learn it from scratch. Many had poor English and had never worked on a farm before. They’d always borne the brunt of Dad’s temper, taking the heat off Ric and his sisters.

  But this year it would be his job to get that cotton out the farm gate. Was the harvesting equipment in good order? Probably yes, knowing Dad. He’d have to find a crew somehow. How many? He couldn’t remember. A couple of picker drivers, a couple of boll-buggy operators. At least four people to rake up the cotton and put tarps on the finished modules. Then someone to slash the old plants, someone to chop up the roots. That was already ten, and it didn’t take account of sickies and pikers. Picking meant working twelve-hour days, six days a week for a month or more. Not every spoilt kid on a gap year could hack it. Did Dad still house them in tents? Was that even legal any more? At the very least, he’d need to get in some portaloos. And what about feeding people? Mum used to be the cook. She’d cook for hours, cook all day. Ric scratched his head. How the hell was he going to do this? Maybe he’d be better off getting in a harvest contractor, even if it meant leaving the picking machines idle in the shed. Dad would have a fit at the expense, but then Dad wasn’t here, was he? And it would be cheaper than losing the crop altogether through some stupid mistake. Losing the crop. The thought shook him. All that ripe cotton, vast swathes of it, resembling improbable fields of summer snow. It was his duty to deliver it safely to the gin at Duggan. He shrugged a little as the unfamiliar responsibility settled uncomfortably on his shoulders.

  A movement out the window caught his eye. A wind had sprung up, stirring the leaves of the browned-off camellias. Sophie was giving the geese a flying lesson, throwing bread and racing in wild circles, arms extended. Dark tangled hair whipped her face. The birds spiralled about her, wings outstretched. She looked otherworldly, like some pagan princess. Little wonder she didn’t fit in at Drover’s Flat Central. He pulled down the blind. First things first. Solve their cash problems.

  Ric pushed open
the door of the dining room that Dad used as an office. Up until now he’d avoided going in there. The remembered fragrance of potpourri had been replaced with the acrid odour of cigars. The graceful teak table looked wrong without Mum’s lace cloth and a vase of fresh flowers. Stacked papers covered its surface in a confused jumble, some piles so tall they teetered on the edge of collapse.

  Ric plucked a few sheets from the table at random. A fertiliser bill from five years ago. A two-year-old letter from the bank. A flyer for the Rural Fire Service. He soon discovered there was no rhyme or reason to the piles of paper. There were sealed letters too. He flipped through them – AgriSuper, Bush Heritage, Discount Cigar World. Ric tossed them aside unopened. He’d need a lot of coffee to tackle this lot. His first instinct was to call Nina. She was always in his thoughts, her name asking to be spoken, her face in his mind’s eye.

  Ric hadn’t seen her since she threw him out. He didn’t blame her; she was sticking up for her father. But how could they fix things if she wouldn’t talk to him? The police had interviewed Jim more than once now. The whole town knew it. Of course that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Ric had been interviewed himself about Dad’s disappearance. But Nina wanted an assurance that he didn’t doubt her father. How could he give it in good conscience, with Max still missing and greater suspicion falling on Jim with each passing day?

  No, he needed to forget about Nina for now. It would be a relief, to go from wanting to forgetting. If he could pull it off. If he could bear the loneliness and niggling jealousy. The idea of Lockie hanging around Red Gums . . .

  Ric sighed. Might as well get on with it. He searched out an empty cardboard box and dropped it on the floor for a rubbish bin. Then he lined up the chairs along the wall and began sorting, using the seats as a filing system. Bills here: phone, power, rates. Receipts there. More bills than receipts, it seemed. Letters from seed suppliers and chemical companies over here. Correspondence more than two years old over there. Letters from the bank, the accountant and Dad’s solicitor earned their own special piles on the sideboard, beside the green glass decanter and dusty liquor glasses. He found boxes of memories packed away too, letters and photographs. He put a framed photo of Max on the table, and another of Mum and Dad, just married, eyes bright with love. Hours slipped by, and a disturbing picture began to emerge.