‘Sophie, wait, about your geese.’ He patted the chair next to him and she sat back down. ‘I’ve found them a new home, at a special sanctuary.’ She drew her knees up to her chest. ‘You’ll be able to visit them whenever you want.’
‘You can’t take them. They’re mine. Poppi gave them to me.’
‘You heard what Nina said. Instinct will make them fly away in the dry season, but without parents to guide them they’ll get confused and lost. You don’t want them hurt, do you?’
‘Can’t we make them stay here somehow?’
‘Not without locking them up all the time. And what’s going to happen when you go home to your mum? I won’t have time to wait on them hand and foot like you do.’
‘Dad, you can’t take them.’ Her eyes welled with tears. ‘I won’t let you.’
‘I’m sorry, Sophie.’ He tried to put his arm around her but she shook him away. ‘I really am, but we can’t keep the geese.’ He sighed and threw another log into the stove. ‘I have to move the steers now. Just think about Midnight. If you want Midnight, the geese will have to go.’
‘That’s blackmail.’ Her voice spiralled higher as she ran from the room. ‘I hate you. I wish you were dead instead of Poppi.’
Ric strapped a bale of hay on the back of the bike and headed out in the pouring rain. It was easier than he’d imagined to move the cattle, much easier than managing Sophie. They crowded along the top fence line, lowing anxiously, facing the trees along the riverbank. A tall black steer with a baldy face stamped a foot and tossed his horns. He raised his head high, sniffing the air, smelling the danger.
Ric opened the gate and the cattle rushed after him. There wasn’t much high ground at Donnalee, but he locked them in the top corner paddock, as far away from the threat as he could. They huddled together, still facing the river. One by one they began to bellow, a deep-throated, apprehensive bawling that jangled his nerves. Ungrateful things. They were a lot safer here if the river kept rising than he and Sophie would be back at the house.
CHAPTER 35
Nina sniffed the wind and smiled. She loved the scent of rain on dry earth and, even after days of wet weather, the sweet smell lingered down here by the river.
Rain had catapulted the stagnating Bunyip into wild good health. All the grief and disappointments of recent weeks could not detract from Nina’s joy in the rising river. And there was more to come. They said the Hopeton Dam was breached. This was no curse; it was a blessing. Those who thought floods were just water going to waste didn’t understand how this country worked. It had been many years since there’d been a decent overflow at Red Gums. The river had overtaken the last peak, bursting free of its banks, and was still building. In her hat and Drizabone, Nina stood hypnotised by the spectacle. Occasionally she ran in with a stick to mark the water level as it crept incrementally higher and higher.
This was the first real test for her riparian revegetation program. At the river’s edge she’d chosen low-growing rushes with matted roots to bind the bank – frogsmouth and cumbungi and other tough reeds that could withstand inundation and fast-flowing water. Higher up grew the medium-sized plants with vigorous root systems. Lignum and callistemon. Tea-tree and thyme-leafed honey-myrtle. Higher up again were the red gums, coolibahs and coobas, well established now and mature enough, she hoped, to cope with the current. As the Bunyip swelled, so did her excitement. The river’s power flowed into her veins, washing away her weariness. Let it keep raining. Let the mighty waters sweep downstream to restore the dwindling billabongs, flush out the stagnant streams and breathe life back into the wetlands. Let the river reclaim its strength. A sudden heavy squall knocked her off her feet and she yelled in excitement, shouting a duet with the wailing wind.
Nina picked herself up and made her way along the bank. Further downstream, the restless water was streaming through a casuarina woodland, exploring her tree guards, gurgling into hollows and carrying away the she-oak needles it found there. Good, the young trees were holding their own. Look at that. A thrill ran through her as an elusive web-footed rakali was flushed from its hollow and darted to safety. She hardly ever saw those shy little animals. And look, a water dragon and a marsh snake swimming for the same snag. They climbed to safety, and perched facing each other in a kind of reptilian Mexican standoff.
Wherever she looked, something new and interesting was happening. It was only when a dead calf floated by that she remembered this weather could turn deadly. What about the bridge? It was bound to be flooded by now, stranding Ric and Sophie on the other side. She’d go and look later on, not that she could do much to help. Not that Ric even deserved any help, but his daughter did. Nina hurled a stick into the water. Why was everything so complicated? Her mobile phone rang, barely audible above the roar of the river. Probably Ric again. This time she just might answer it. But it wasn’t Ric, it was her mother.
‘Mum? Can I ring you back? I’m in the middle of something.’
‘They’ve found Max.’
Her legs went weak. ‘Where? When? Is he . . .?’
‘He’s dead, Nina. They found him yesterday, floating down the Kingfisher. The rains must have flushed out his body.’
‘What does this mean for Dad?’
‘We don’t know yet. The police aren’t giving much away, but they want to talk to him again.’
‘He needs a lawyer.’
‘Frank Trumble will sit in on the interview.’
‘I’ll come as soon as I can.’
‘Thank you, Nini.’ There was a catch in her mother’s voice. Nini. Mum hadn’t used that pet name since she was little, and Nina’s eyes swam with unexpected tears. Poor Mum. The family’s dependable tower of strength, the embodiment of calm and humble dignity. Nina pictured her mother’s kind hazel eyes. Her generous, comforting bosom that always smelled of eau de toilette. Her strong capable hands, wrinkled now and mottled with middle age. Nina thought of Sophie, across the river. Sophie, who hadn’t known that solid sense of family, of security, of belonging.
It had come as a surprise to discover just how much she missed Sophie. More than she missed Lockie. More even than Ric. They didn’t need her, not the way Sophie did, and it was nice to be needed. And maybe, just maybe, she needed Sophie too. Needed to help Sophie with that new horse, if it ever happened, the way she’d promised. Needed to show her the secret billabong where the snake-necked turtles hatched, teach her how to spot a platypus, tell her Freeman’s dreaming stories. Needed to share her love of the wetlands, to pass that passion and knowledge on, the way Eva had to her long ago. But seeing Sophie meant seeing Ric, and that was still a bridge too far. Last night she’d sat out on the porch, watching the lights of Donnalee homestead through the trees until one by one the windows went dark. Hoping Sophie was getting along with her father. Saying goodnight.
Nina cast another stick into the water, where it was swallowed by a whirlpool. What had happened to Max, out there in the swamp? Had he died alone, with only river red gums to witness his passing? She wouldn’t want to die like that. But maybe everybody was alone at the end, no matter what their circumstances. Maybe death was always a lonely affair.
A chill ran through her. The rain had somehow found its way down her neck and she couldn’t feel her fingers any more. Better get moving, stop moping around. There was plenty to do before she made the drive to town.
CHAPTER 36
The truck ground to a halt. Ric could barely see through the windscreen, even with the wipers on full. Somewhere beneath that swirling wall of water ahead of him lay the eastern irrigation channel. There’d be no getting out this way either, not even in a tractor.
‘Can we go home?’ asked Sophie.
Ric had spent the afternoon exploring alternative routes into town. This road had been their last option. It looked like he and Sophie were well and truly stranded.
Sophie tapped his arm. ‘Dad.’
‘Yeah. We can go home.’ He made a three-point turn, panicking when the back wheels s
ank into mud at the edge of the track. They spun uselessly for a minute before finding traction. It wouldn’t do to get bogged way out here. Donnalee was thirty kilometres away.
Ric crept back down the road, half-blinded by sheets of rain, replaying the early-morning phone call over and over. The detective’s words still echoed in his ears. They’d found him. They’d found Dad floating in the Kingfisher River. He hadn’t told Sophie yet. He didn’t have the words. Ric bit his lip and a terrible restlessness took hold of him. His father was in a Moree morgue and he was stuck out here. They’d confirmed his identity by dental records. There wouldn’t be a lot left of Max anyway, not after six weeks in the water. No chance for a proper goodbye. The finality of his father’s death slammed him in the guts, had done so all day. He’d never see him again.
Questions crowded his brain, driving him insane. Questions that might never find answers. How had his father died? His father who’d always been as strong as an ox, who’d lived his life on the river that had claimed him. And the most vexing question of all – what did Jim Moore have to do with it? He didn’t want to believe in Jim’s guilt. He wanted to get to town, show the detectives the evidence he’d found, the homemade float and fishhook. See if it made a difference.
Ric slowed down to negotiate a deep, fast-flowing culvert. At least Max wasn’t here to see what the floods had done to the cotton. Yesterday the rising river had eaten away at the old levee, just a tiny break at first, a mere dribble. Ric had reinforced it with sandbags, but as soon as one spot was shored up, another spot failed. Impossible. That levee had never been breached. He’d worked in a frenzy, sodden clothes clinging to his body, feet caked in sludge, heaping bags along the top of the embankment as the water edged higher. And when he ran out of sandbags he’d shovelled mud at the low spots until his muscles screamed no more. But it had kept on raining and he’d kept on working, even when he knew it was hopeless. The water had swirled around his ankles, then his calves, and the battle was lost. Dozens of trickles had turned into streams and then to gushing spillways that would not be placated until the levee was washed away, and all his labour was reduced to piss in the wind.
Water had inundated every field, drowning the crop of which Dad had been so proud. And still the river rose. The new dams, Dad’s grand monuments to his victory over the elements, hastened the destruction of the cotton. The vast storages broke their banks, releasing raging torrents into the network of irrigation channels crisscrossing the farm, providing an efficient delivery system for the ruinous floodwaters. It would have broken Dad’s heart to see his precious infrastructure used against him like this. But then who could have imagined the extent of this disaster? And their crop insurance didn’t cover floods. Rain, yes, but not floods. They’d been utterly wiped out.
By the time they got home, it was prematurely dark. The clouds seemed to have sucked all the light from the sky, and water lapped just fifteen metres from the back door. Hell, that had come up quickly, and he’d used all the sandbags on the bloody levee.
Sophie stared at the river and frowned. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Ric. ‘It won’t come inside.’ He kissed her before sending her in. Then he waded down to where the boat was moored and moved it higher again. At this rate he’d be tying it up beneath the house next. Ric had understood at some theoretical level that the homestead might be at risk, but he hadn’t really believed it. Not until now.
He thought of Nina and how complicated it had all become. Would she ever forgive him? Where was she right now? How was she coping with the news that they’d found Max’s body? It hurt to think he might never know. The unfamiliar sting of tears stabbed his eyes. At least when you hit rock bottom, things couldn’t get any worse.
CHAPTER 37
By six o’clock that evening, Nina was sitting in an interview room at the Moree Police Station. The air was stale and warm and smelled faintly of perspiration. Her mind was in a whirl. Detective Inspector Reed had asked her so many questions about the day Max disappeared, often getting her to repeat things or clarify her answers. He’d warned her to try not to anticipate where the questions were going, but she couldn’t help herself. What if she was somehow hurting Dad’s case? The Detective Inspector took copious notes as well as recording the interview. Every sound was magnified: the scratching pen, the rustling papers, the throb of blood in her ears.
Mum went in next. Afterwards they sat together, waiting for news. It seemed like forever before Dad and his lawyer came into the room. All the colour had drained from Dad’s usually ruddy face. ‘I’ve been charged,’ he said.
‘Charged?’ said Mum. ‘What do you mean, charged? Charged with what?’
Dad sank down on the chair beside her and buried his head in his hands.
‘Manslaughter, Ellen,’ said Frank. ‘Manslaughter, and assault causing grievous bodily harm. The autopsy on Max Bonelli showed that he’d drowned after suffering blunt force trauma to the head.’
‘But who’s to say Jim’s involved?’ said Mum. ‘Max was drunk, wasn’t he? He might have fallen and hit his head? Anything might have happened.’
‘That’s precisely why the charge wasn’t a more serious one, like murder. And Jim can claim self-defence.’
‘I keep telling people,’ said Dad. ‘I got the worst of that fight, though I’m ashamed to say it. As far as I know, bloody Max Bonelli was fit as a fiddle when he took off in that rusted tinny of his.’
Mum put a calming hand on his arm. ‘Have they found his boat?’
Frank shook his head. ‘The police case is largely circumstantial. Our problem is that Jim seems to be the last person to have seen Max alive. He admits that they fought, and he has a clear motive. The hostility between Jim and Max is longstanding and common knowledge, I’m afraid. Shame that your husband was so forthcoming with the police during his earlier interviews. You really should have called me then.’
‘I’m in the room,’ muttered Dad. ‘You don’t have to talk about me like I’m not here.’
Nina went to sit beside her father. She gave him a swift hug, but he shrugged her away. The room began to spin. She leaned back against the wall to steady herself and closed her eyes.
‘Jim didn’t do this,’ said Mum. ‘Can he come home?’
‘Indeed he can, but he’ll have to report to the police station daily.’
‘That’s a four-hundred-kilometre round trip.’
‘Why don’t you two find somewhere to stay here in Moree,’ Frank suggested. ‘We’ve got a lot of work to do in the next few weeks.’
‘We could stay with my cousin,’ said Ellen. Nina could see her mum’s mind working overtime, trying to organise things. By comparison, Dad just looked dazed. ‘We’ll drive home tonight and pick up what we need, organise Kevin to run the store,’ she said. ‘We could be back first thing tomorrow morning. Would that do?’
Frank nodded. ‘Senior Sergeant Bradshaw has granted bail on Jim’s own undertaking. With manslaughter there’s generally a presumption against it, but frankly, Ellen, I’m not surprised your husband’s been released. He has substantial standing in the community. Nobody sees Jim as a threat, and there’s no danger of his interfering with witnesses because, as far as we know, there aren’t any.’
A police officer came over with an air of apology and handed Frank a piece of paper. ‘Can I get anyone a coffee?’ She received no response and left them again. How surreal. Everybody so nice, so friendly, as if they were dealing with nothing more than a traffic offence.
Frank showed Dad the sheet of paper. ‘The next thing is to sign and date the bail bond.’
Her father took up a pen and stared at the form blankly. ‘What day is it?’
‘The thirteenth of April.’ Frank pointed something out to Dad. ‘That’s the date of your appearance at Moree courthouse. See? The committal mention is three weeks away. It also lists the reporting conditions. Failure to abide by any of them means bail will be revoked. Failure to appear at court is a jailable offence and will mean your security is forfeit.
Understand?’
Her father nodded assent and then her mother. But Nina didn’t understand. She didn’t understand any of it.
CHAPTER 38
Wednesday morning and Nina was back home. She was meant to be servicing the tractor. Instead she was down the hill, watching the water again. It had been raining for five days straight now, with no sign of let-up. The wild weather was the tail end of a tropical cyclone apparently, which had turned into a rain depression. The bureau hadn’t expected it to penetrate so far inland and was hurriedly playing catch-up with river-level projections and flood warnings. It was nice to know that not everything could be explained away with science.
She stood with the wind in her face and the flood’s low roar in her ears. She couldn’t tear herself away. The river was like an awakened god – both terrible and beautiful. It was everywhere, filling up her senses, demanding worship.
The lens of her imagination swung wide. Nina saw the precious water spilling out over the plains, flowing into secret backwaters and billabongs, reviving the thirsty flood country. She saw brolgas dancing with joy; river gums drinking their fill; dry-land farmers from all over the basin celebrating as the big wet resurrected their land and livelihoods – their pastures renewed, their fallow paddocks soaking up precious moisture, ready to plant winter crops in a few months’ time.
It wasn’t good news for everybody, of course. The river also demanded sacrifice. Donnalee’s levee banks had failed, setting the flood free. She’d watched the water spread over the flat fields, swallowing the cotton plants, drowning their black skeletons and white seed bolls beneath an unbroken sea of brown. The crop was a wipe-out. Nina idly drew a cross in the damp earth with the toe of her boot. Served Ric right, didn’t it? Hard not to feel something though, for a fellow farmer losing everything.
The plaintive cry of a plover sounded from the reed beds. How were Sophie’s geese? she wondered. Such rare and beautiful birds. She missed having a say in their future. How would she ever know what happened to them now?
Billabong Bend Page 24
