Billabong Bend

by Jennifer Scoullar

  Nina tugged off her damp clothes and pulled on track pants and a fleecy jumper. She patted the bed and climbed beneath the blankets. Jinx jumped up and laid his warm, heavy body against her. She huddled beside him. Beyond the curtains, flashes of lightning lit up the wind-tossed trees. Too much to think about. Too many shocks, too much sorrow. Only two things gave her comfort. The gentle dog lying beside her and the beautiful, terrible storm that raged over the river, for all of that long, long night.

  CHAPTER 33

  Sunday morning. Ric emerged from the fog of sleep, praying the events of the previous day had happened only in a nightmare. But it was futile. Yesterday he’d killed Guddhu, and although he’d never intended it, a chunk of his humanity felt like it had died along with her. Killing the great cod was the sort of thing his father would have done. And Ric was ashamed deep in his soul. He’d ruined any chance of a reconciliation with Nina and, if you believed a superstitious old man, he’d brought down some sort of curse. And for what? The chance that an old fish hook could be important? To top it all off, a steady drumming on the roof told him that it was still raining. Ric fumbled around for his phone. His hand still hurt. He checked the time. Eight o’clock. He reset his flashing alarm. At least the power was back on.

  Sophie was already watching television in the lounge room, wrapped in a blanket. She ignored him when he poked his head around the corner, asking if she wanted breakfast. Ric went in, sat beside her on the couch and paused the DVD.

  ‘Dad, that’s my favourite part.’

  ‘This’ll just take a minute.’ She fell back on the cushions, watching him. ‘I never meant to kill that fish. I was trying to let it go.’

  ‘Nina loved that fish. You could tell.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I did too. And I’m terribly sorry that it died and that you were frightened. Can you forgive me?’

  Sophie looked thoughtful. ‘I haven’t decided yet. Can I have some toast?’

  ‘Okay.’

  As he reached for the remote to put the movie back on, she kissed his cheek. ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  The kitchen was freezing, so he went about setting a fire in the ancient wood heater that doubled as a stove at a pinch. Who knew how long the power might last? He took Sophie her toast and glanced out the window at the sodden garden. By the look of it, the rain hadn’t stopped all night. He’d better go through the office again, find out once and for all if Dad had crop insurance. Maybe give his cousin a call, get some advice on how seriously the cotton was likely to be affected. But first, he’d go take a look for himself.

  In the drenched fields the defoliated bushes were bowed down by the weight of waterlogged cotton. There was some hail damage, but if the rain stopped soon he could salvage most of it. The forecast promised improving weather, but forecasts could be wrong. The bureau hadn’t predicted last night’s storm or all this rain. He’d have to wait and hope. Goddamnit, this was one of the reasons he’d vowed never to follow in his father’s footsteps here at Donnalee. Ric was no gambler, and yet the success of the harvest always lay in the lap of the gods.

  He took his time heading home. Quite a novelty, to smell the rain, to splash through little puddles on the track. They wouldn’t last long. You could almost hear the thirsty ground sucking them dry. He rang his cousin when he got back to the house.

  ‘It’s raining here too,’ said Tony. ‘Stopped the harvest in its tracks.’

  ‘You’ve started picking?’

  ‘Picked about fifty per cent so far. What about you? How’d you go getting a crew?’

  ‘I’ve organised contractors,’ said Ric. ‘But they haven’t started yet.’

  Tony whistled through his teeth. ‘That’s a damn shame.’

  ‘Will they still be right to pick?’

  Tony took his time answering. ‘Should be, as long as this rain stops. You’ll need a few days of sunny weather first to dry the lint. Don’t know where this weather blew up from. Bloody bureau got it wrong again.’

  ‘What’ll be the damage?’ asked Ric.

  ‘You’ll have some yellowing, no doubt about that,’ said Tony. ‘Some downgrade in quality. But cotton’s a tough crop. You should be right as long as it stops raining.’

  Ric rang off and went to check on Sophie. She was still huddled on the couch, but the lump beneath the blanket seemed to have increased in size. Odette must be under there with her. ‘Make sure you clean up any mess,’ he said. Things couldn’t go on like this. Those geese were wrecking the house.

  Ric brewed a pot of coffee and switched on the radio for some music, but all he could find was a hissing static. And that was almost drowned out by the noise of the rain. Cotton farmers had a love-hate relationship with wet weather. They loved it at the beginning of the season and hated it at the end; it was as simple as that. He’d never learned to appreciate the sound of rain on the roof, not like Nina. For farmers like her with their flood-dependent pastures, it was the sound of life itself.

  Ric switched to the AM band. He could always get the local ABC. Their radio programs were dull, but anything was better than being alone with his thoughts this morning. He poured a coffee and sat down to listen. An environment segment, somebody talking about the Bimbimbie Zoo at Moree.

  ‘Bimbimbie is an Aboriginal word for “place of many birds”,’ the woman said. ‘Our wetland sanctuary gives visitors a chance to see over thirty different kinds of waterbirds in their natural surroundings. We’re extending the lake, and plan to display more rare and threatened species in the future.’

  Ric sipped his coffee, brain working overtime while the woman talked about Bimbimbie’s scientific breeding program and qualified keepers. Problem solved. Not even Nina could argue with finding the geese a home with their very own wetland sanctuary. With their own staff, for Christ’s sake. He rummaged around in the kitchen drawer and found a pen in time to note down the number. Done. He rang and got straight through.

  ‘Of course we’re interested,’ said the park manager. ‘Magpie geese are very rare here in New South Wales. We’d be delighted to take the birds off your hands. How did you come by them?’

  Ric repeated the tale he’d told Nina, and explained how Sophie had become their surrogate mother. ‘Your daughter sounds like a very special girl,’ said the manager. ‘Her birds will get an excellent home here, you can assure her of that, but there is something you should know before we take them.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The geese will need to be pinioned. It’s a simple surgical procedure that permanently prevents them from flying. We amputate part of the wingtip by severing the second and third metacarpal bones. It lets us display the birds in large, open-air exhibits.’

  Oh. In his mind’s eye the geese rose around him once more on graceful wings, flanking the quad bike as it hurtled down the track. His skin goosebumped at the recollection. He’d been one with the flock, had shared for a moment the thrill, the primal freedom of flight that was their birthright. Could he deny them something so fundamental? But then, what choice did he have? The geese couldn’t stay here, and they’d be well cared for. After a while, maybe they’d forget all about flying. ‘Okay,’ he said at last.

  ‘Excellent,’ said the manager. ‘I look forward to welcoming our new charges.’

  Ric put down the phone, feeling rather empty. He wandered down the hall and into the lounge room. ‘Sophie?’

  ‘Dad, look. That girl’s just like me. She’s got geese.’ It was true. On the screen a little girl danced around in circles, followed by geese. ‘They think she’s their mother.’

  ‘Well, what do you know? You’re not the only nutcase in this world.’ He even got a little smile for that. ‘I’m going into town. Want to come?’

  ‘Nope,’ she said. ‘I still haven’t forgiven you for killing Nina’s fish. And anyway, I want to watch this movie.’

  ‘Righto,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring you back some chocolate.’

  Ric made a rain-soaked dash to the tool shed. Then he headed under the
house to the coolroom, using a pulley to lower the giant cod to the floor. He prised the hook from her jaw with pliers and examined it. Homemade from barbed wire, just like Dad’s ones. Of course Max wasn’t the only person to make his own hooks or cork floats. But if it was Dad’s gear, and he’d hooked Guddhu on that last day, it would mean Nina’s father was innocent. That Dad had travelled on down the river after their fight. He hauled the cod back up and took a few photos, putting himself in for scale.

  He went back outside and rang the Moree police station, trying to explain the significance of his discovery. ‘The investigating officer won’t be back till Monday,’ said the voice. ‘I’ll pass on your message, but remember – plenty of people make their own fishing gear. Just pop the fish in your freezer for now and someone will get back to you.’

  Pop the fish in the freezer. It was almost funny. Ric got in the car and tried calling Nina, but she didn’t pick up. She’d be screening her calls. Ric jumped in the car and headed for town, rumbling across the dilapidated bridge. He cast his eyes over the river. It was coming to life. For the first time since his return, the Bunyip had a visible current, rippled with a burden of sticks and leaves.

  It rained all the way into Drover’s Flat. The wind had died and the storm had passed, but the rain was relentless – a grey shroud hiding the sky and drastically reducing visibility. The road was treacherous, with a skin of mud. It made for a slow trip to town.

  Ric pulled up at the Angler’s Arms, hunched his shoulders against the weather, and went around the back. A brewery truck was parked in the lane. Terry Campbell, the pub’s rotund proprietor, was supervising the delivery of beer kegs. ‘Safe to show my face, is it?’ asked Ric.

  ‘Fine by me,’ said Terry. ‘If you came here nearer to closing, when some of those bastards have already had a skinful . . . well, it might be a different kettle of fish.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Ric. ‘I’ll steer clear.’ The pub owner gave him a grateful nod. He didn’t want any trouble, that was fair enough, but it showed how high tensions had risen in town. ‘Do you have a minute, Terry?’

  ‘Come on in. I could use an excuse to get out of this rain.’

  Once inside, Ric showed him the picture of Guddhu. ‘What do you know about this?’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Terry. ‘I bloody well don’t believe it. So Max actually pulled it off.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Max came in here the day he disappeared, bragging that he’d found out where a big Murray cod lived – bigger than Moby Dick. Asked me if the reward still stood.’

  Terry took another look at the photo. ‘Pity he’s not around to claim his money. I’ve never seen anything like it. There hasn’t been a cod like that caught around here for sixty years.’ He licked his lips. ‘If this photo’s fair dinkum, that monster could eat Moby Dick for breakfast. Five thousand bucks says I’ve got to have this thing,’ said Terry. ‘I’ll throw in an extra five hundred for good measure. What do you say?’

  Ric felt a sharp twinge of resentment at Terry’s use of the word monster. He tried to see past it. Five thousand dollars was a lot of money, more than enough to buy Sophie that horse. But the pain in Guddhu’s ancient, dying eyes was seared into his conscience. She wouldn’t be stuffed and hung on a pub wall for a lot of drunks to gawk at, not if he could help it. ‘I don’t think so.’ Ric tipped his hat and headed for the car.

  CHAPTER 34

  The rain didn’t stop later that day. It didn’t stop that night when he and Sophie ate their Sunday roast dinner of the last of the wild pork. It didn’t stop on Monday morning when he drove Sophie to school, or in the afternoon when he picked her up. On top of that, the Moree police hadn’t returned his calls and Nina wouldn’t even take them. When he dropped over to Red Gums, either she was out or she wouldn’t answer the door. Frustration was rising like the river. The swollen Bunyip was threatening the bridge on the Donnalee road to town. When Ric did a final check on Monday evening, a muddy torrent already swirled around the struts beneath the wooden spans.

  Ric woke on Tuesday morning after a restless night and it was still damn well raining. He looked across at the alarm clock. Dead. Great. The power out again, and Dad hadn’t taught him the knack of starting the dodgy generator. How late was it anyway? He couldn’t judge by looking out the window. The world was a wall of grey. When he went to wake Sophie, she refused to get out of bed. ‘What about our deal?’

  ‘The deal’s still on, Dad,’ came her muffled reply from under the blankets. ‘But I haven’t seen any horse yet.’ Ric let it go. She was safer at home in this weather anyway. He stood out on the porch and watched the rain. The mutter of the rising river had grown louder. Better check out the bridge.

  After solid days of rain, the ground had quenched its thirst. No longer did it suck the moisture down to its heart, but instead let it lie on the surface in ever-widening puddles. Ric took the bike down the drive, dodging the brimming potholes, and turned onto the road. The mutter became a roar and his heart sank. The old bridge was awash, swallowed by the river. As he watched, the current pulled a section of deck from its support timbers. It rose to the surface then plunged downstream. Hell, that was a first. What was he supposed to do now? This was the only road to town, without taking a hundred­-kilometre detour. And with the river this high, there was no guarantee he’d get through the back way either.

  Ric sat for a while, transfixed by the angry water. A dead sheep floated past, grotesque and bloated. A tin box that might once have been somebody’s pumphouse. A runaway dinghy. An entire tree, huge root ball and all, buoyed along by the current. Its trunk ploughed into another section of the damaged bridge, splintering it and ripping it from its footings. Ric tore himself away. Better get home. At this rate he’d need to move the steers to higher ground. He tried not to think about the cotton. Harvest was looking more and more like a busted flush.

  Back at the house, he poured himself a cup of cold coffee and lit the stove, trying to shake off his nerves. There was something sinister about the washed-away bridge, as if the river had deliberately cut them off from the rest of the world. One good thing, though – the landline still worked. He rang the school and explained, with a great deal of satisfaction, that the bridge was out. First time he’d ever had a legitimate excuse for Sophie’s absence.

  How was Nina faring? Living on the other side of the river, at least she wasn’t cut off from town. And the homestead at Red Gums was on a rise. Not like at Donnalee. Ric called her for the umpteenth time. He couldn’t help himself. She might be in more trouble than he thought. She might want to know about the geese or Sophie. She might be ready to hear him apologise again. Hell, she might be missing him, like he was missing her. But the phone rang out as it always did.

  Sophie emerged from the hallway, rubbing sleep from her eyes and with a blanket wrapped around her like a cape. She flicked the useless light switch and rolled her eyes. ‘I’m going back to bed.’

  ‘Soph, come into the kitchen for a minute. I want to talk to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘About this new horse of yours.’ That got her attention. She shuffled after him, blanket and all, and pulled a chair up to the flaring stove.

  ‘We could look at that Horse Deals magazine. You can show me your favourites again.’

  ‘I’ll go get it.’ She ran off. He poured a bowl of Rice Bubbles and looked in the fridge. No milk. He picked at the dry cereal with his fingers.

  Sophie arrived carrying the magazine, with its dozens of bookmarked pages. ‘I like this one . . . and this one . . . and this one.’

  He looked doubtfully at her choices. A Clydesdale in Queensland. A racehorse in Melbourne. A Warmblood stallion in Tasmania. ‘What about this one?’ He scrolled through his phone to the photo of Gino’s sister’s black galloway.

  ‘It’s beautiful. What’s its name?’

  ‘Midnight.’

  ‘Boy or a girl?’

  ‘Girl,’ he said. ‘A ten
-year-old black mare named Midnight, just the right size for you. And she lives right here in Drover’s. We can’t buy her till next month, but they’ll hold her for us and we can visit anytime. You can ride her, try her out.’

  ‘Wish Mum could see her . . .’

  ‘We’ll send her some photos.’

  ‘And Nina too. She hasn’t finished teaching me to ride. I haven’t even cantered yet.’ She gave him a stern look. ‘You really should stop fighting with Nina.’

  From the mouths of babes. ‘I’ll try.’ He held up his hand. ‘Scout’s honour.’

  She giggled. ‘Were you ever a scout?’

  ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘By the way, the bridge is washed out. You won’t have to go to school.’

  Much to Ric’s surprise, Sophie looked put out. ‘Can’t we take the boat into town?’

  ‘Not when the river’s running so high. Too dangerous.’

  ‘But I want to tell Shian about Midnight. She’s got her own horse too. We can go riding together. Maybe she can join my pony club.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t have any friends?’

  Sophie smiled. ‘Maybe just one.’ She let the blanket fall from her shoulders, and gave him a hug, the first one ever. It felt very good to see Sophie happy. Lord knows, there’d been little enough happiness at Donnalee lately.

  ‘I’m going to tell Odette and the others.’ She slipped from her chair, pulled the blanket back around her, and started for the door.

  ‘Sophie . . .’

  ‘Guess what I’ve called the little goose. Igor, just like you wanted. It’s actually a good name, Dad.’

  He tried to remember. That’s right. He’d suggested naming the runt Igor, because of its crooked neck and limping gait. ‘I thought you didn’t like it.’

  ‘I do now,’ she said. ‘It’s perfect. One of the geese in that movie was called Igor. He was little too.’

  ‘What movie?’

  ‘You know. That movie the other day, about the other mother-goose girl.’ She turned to go.