As Far as You Can Go

by Lesley Glaister

  They walk side by side now, speaking little, searching as they approach. A pump comes into view beside a stand of trees. ‘Gray.’ Cassie stops. ‘You don’t think –’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s not Woolagong, is it?’

  ‘Nah.’ His heart gives a sickly beat in his throat. ‘Course not.’

  They proceed a bit more slowly. It can’t be Woolagong, there should be two pumps – but which direction would they be coming from? If it was, he couldn’t bear the look of pure ecstatic smarm on Larry’s face. Can’t be. But at least there would be a bed to lie on, fresh water, beer and grub. He grits his teeth against the pain in his heel, scrambles his brain trying to work something out from the sun’s direction. But it’s no good, that part of his head is burnt out.

  ‘What would we do?’ she says.

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘But if? I know,’ she grabs his arm, ‘we could creep back to our bed and rest. He wouldn’t know – and then –’ she trails off.

  ‘It’s not!’ he says, shaking off her arm. He can see it now, the whole layout is wrong, the whole lie of the land, type of bush, it’s smaller altogether, not the same place at all, nothing like. Her hand flies to her heart. Under the sunburn and dust and freckles she looks pale.

  ‘Drink some water,’ he says.

  ‘What shall we say when we get there?’ She swigs. ‘Nearly gone, still it’s OK now, isn’t it?’ She finishes it and wipes her mouth, her lips pink and wet where the dust’s washed off. Looks at her watch. ‘Five past four,’ she says. ‘Just in time for tea!’

  ‘Come on.’ He limps off towards the station. More signs of civilisation – posts, rusty bits of machinery, a broken-down shed. The deafening drone of flies. But no livestock in sight, no cars, voices. There is movement, he sees, the pump turning. But his optimism wanes the closer they get, visions of kind women and cold beer evaporating. It is a ruin. The wreck of a station. Some trees – the most beautiful gums, startling white and green, alive with birds, a fantastic freshness for the eyes – but otherwise nothing. No house, no people, just piles of old sun-silvered timber, corrugated iron, a couple of wrecked utes.

  But there is something. As they walk amongst the wreckage they hear, smell, see it together, a splash of water – water spouting intermittently into an overflow tank open to the sky, as the breeze drives round the pump. They hurry over: the galvanised tank is deep with greenish water, floating with small dead things.

  ‘Think it’s OK to drink?’ Cassie says.

  ‘No choice.’ Graham dips his finger in the tepid water and licks. ‘Not salty, anyway.’

  ‘If we catch the next gush,’ she says, unscrewing her water bottle. ‘That’ll be OK.’

  He eases the bloodstained sock off his foot, tiny fibres of cotton sticking on the raw place.

  ‘Ouch.’ Cassie winces for him.

  He strips, gets hold of the edge of the tank, hauls himself up and drops in. It is lukewarm, thickish and mushy at the bottom. But still, the sensation of water all over his body. Just don’t look too hard.

  ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘it’ll do you good.’

  ‘But –’ She frowns at the bobbing mass of insects, feathers, slime and God knows what else. ‘I’ll just sit on the edge and wash.’ She strips off her clothes, climbs up, lets her feet dangle into the water. The middle part of her is blinding white, almost blue against the tan of her legs and arms and face; her nipples a couple of soft pink flowers. She reaches down and scoops water, rubs it under her arms.

  Graham dips his head under to get rid of the cloud of flies, then comes up bubbling, tugs her foot and she slips in and right under, her hair streaming out, releasing a fuzz of bubbles.

  ‘You pig!’ she splutters. She grabs the side and hauls herself up. She starts to laugh then screams looking at his arm, ‘there’s something on you! Get out,’ she says, more calmly. ‘It’s a leech.’

  They scramble awkwardly out of the tank and land on the red dirt. It’s clinging to his arm above the elbow. A slimy bluish sausage skin swelling as they watch. He chops at it with the side of his hand, but it just goes on getting bigger. Its mouth grips like a metal clip. He feels faint.

  ‘Hold on –’ she reaches for her bag and pulls out a box of matches, lights one but it goes out, lights another and holds it against the leech until it jerks and falls off, releasing a bright trickle of blood.

  He leans giddily against the tank a minute. Then laughs. ‘Thank God for the Girl Guides.’

  ‘What?’ She looks at him crossly. ‘Oh, ha ha.’

  He swallows. It looks like a bloody old condom twitching in the dust.

  ‘Get your shoes on,’ Cassie says. ‘Ants, everywhere.’ They are already swarming towards his drying blood. They pull their sweaty clothes on over damp skins. She finds him another plaster for his heel and he puts his trainers on, undone, minus the socks. They wait beside the tank for a few minutes or so, till there’s a gust of breeze strong enough to turn the pump. Flies buzz deafeningly, batting softly against their faces. The pump creaks and Cassie manages to catch maybe a pint of clean water. They take a swig each. It is warm but clean, tastes of clay.

  ‘At least we won’t dehydrate,’ she says.

  He looks at her and shakes his head. ‘How did you know what to do about the leech?’ he asks.

  ‘Obvious, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘These bloody flies.’ She flaps her hand, jams her hat down as far over her face as she can.

  A big white cockatoo lands on the edge of the water tank. Stiff white quiff like a frosted Elvis.

  ‘Hello,’ Cassie says in a stupid voice.

  ‘Cockie, cockie,’ it replies, in a creaking voice. ‘Good boy Cookie.’

  She laughs. ‘Cockie?’

  ‘Cockie, cockie.’

  ‘Poor thing. Must have belonged to whoever –’

  ‘But this place must have been derelict for years.’

  ‘Maybe things rot quicker in this climate? Anyway parrots live ages.’ She slaps her calf to get rid of the ants climbing her leg. ‘Let’s get away from here.’

  They go across to a pile of sun-bleached, splintery timber and sit down. The late afternoon light is shading to a syrupy gold. No proper breakfast, no lunch, and soon no supper. Graham manages, between the awkward planks, to wangle himself a place to stretch out. He smokes a fag, flies crawling on his fingers, the fag, the corner of his mouth. Above him the sky is still blue though the quality of the light is changing; what is it that’s different about afternoon light than morning? The breeze rustling the leaves of the trees sounds like the sea. Imagine the cold North Sea. His stomach moans.

  ‘Yeah,’ Cassie agrees, batting the flies away. ‘If we only had some food we’d be OK.’

  He shuts his eyes. Obviously they’ll stay here tonight. And then? Shuts his mind to the question. Too tired, too hungry. The wood is warm to lie on. He’s starting to melt towards sleep when Cassie says:

  ‘Get up!’

  The tone of her voice makes him obey and it is not until he is standing on the ground that he sees the snake, a skinny, black and red thing, deadly-looking, rearing up, flickering its tongue. They back away. The snake holds its pose for a moment and then flows away under the woodpile.

  ‘Exactly the sort of place for snakes and all sorts,’ she says. ‘We should have thought.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Graham looks forlornly at the comfortable plank.

  ‘We’d better look for something to eat,’ she says. ‘There must be something.’

  He limps, bad heel squashing down the back of his trainer, behind her through the heaps of debris. They find a patch of melons the size of tennis balls. He splits one open but it is dry inside, thready and bitter. Inedible.

  ‘We could dig up grubs,’ Graham says. ‘They’re meant to be nutritious.’ He means it as a tease but Cassie looks at him quite seriously.

  ‘Only if the worst comes to the worst,’ she says.

  ‘Or I could kill something,’ he suggests, looking at
the white cockatoo, which is getting on his tits, hopping round with them, congratulating itself. Good boy Cockie.

  ‘Anyway, it won’t hurt us not to eat for one day. Think of it as a detox. We’ve still got a couple of peppermints. Want yours now or save it?’

  Graham holds his hand out. Puts it in his mouth and tries not to crunch. His jaw aches to chew something. What about tomorrow? But can’t face the question now. If he can’t eat he must at least get horizontal. But where? The place is heaving with bugs, snakes, there’s a great tough spider’s web stretched between two bushes, thick as fuse wire. Imagine the bugger that spun that.

  ‘If you could have anything to eat, anything in the world, what would you have?’ Cassie says. He looks at her in disbelief. She closes her eyes and smiles. ‘I’d have a glass of lemonade – with ice – and a huge slice of Victoria sponge. With strawberry jam and fresh cream. Thick, cool, white –’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Don’t –’ she begins then stops. ‘Hey?’ She holds up her hand. ‘Hey, listen.’

  ‘What?’ A gust of breeze fluttering the leaves, a creak of the pump, the poxy parrot squawking, a gush of missed fresh water. Should have rigged something up to catch it –

  ‘Listen.’

  He strains his ears. She’s right, there is something. An engine sound. He shuts his eyes to listen better. The noise quickly gets louder. A plane! It is a plane! They go out into the open, search the sky till it appears, a small plane, flying low enough, surely, to spot them.

  Graham takes off his T-shirt, waves it, Cassie waves her hat, jumping as the plane comes low. ‘Here, here, here,’ she shrieks. The plane dips a wing and circles low and then away again.

  ‘It must have seen us,’ she wails.

  He waits, watches. ‘It’s coming back.’

  ‘Oh thank God, thank you, God. Oh no –’

  It seems to be leaving but it is only banking into a turn.

  ‘Working out where to land,’ Graham says. The blood roars in his head, he feels he might pass right out with the relief. He pulls his T-shirt back on. Oh thank you, he looks back at the sky, at whatever, thank you. He pulls Cassie towards him, holding her tightly, she is alive, he is alive, it is all OK. They stand waiting. Holding hands like a couple of kids until the plane finally does touch down and bumps towards them, sending up a storm of dust. The cockatoo croaks and flaps away.

  They grin at each other, walk towards the plane and – at the same instant – stop.

  Thirty-one

  Out of the dust walks Larry, adjusting his panama. ‘Well, well, well, what have we here?’

  Graham blinks. Scratch of dust in his eye. Cassie’s nails dig into his hand.

  ‘Thought you’d take a little stroll, eh?’ Larry says. ‘Can we offer you a lift or would you rather walk back?’

  Graham looks at Cassie but her head is down, hair sticking to her face, hat scrunched in her hand. He looks round at the ruined place. The pump turns, slosh of water. The trees swish. The birds, which had risen in fright, settle back amongst the leaves. There’s nothing for it but to follow Larry to the plane.

  ‘G’day.’ A smile crawls across Kip’s face. Blank shine in his eyes. They do up the belts. Larry slams shut the door. Cassie looks away, out of the window. He sees her throat contract as she swallows, the white line above her upper lip. But no tears. He reaches for her hand. The plane roars into life, bumps across the ground and lifts, leaving his stomach behind. He sees a startled kangaroo and joey bounding away and then they tilt and he can see nothing but sky.

  His guts lurch as the plane lifts and banks. Nothing in his stomach to be sick with, only water. Cassie’s grip on his hand tightens. A pool of sweat between their palms. The back of Larry’s head is in his face, bouffant grey hair exposing the thinness underneath; pink skin, yellow bone, what kind of sick brain?

  Graham swallows down a surge of nausea. Forces himself to look out again, down at the land below, patterned with a trace of road, stippled bush, crawly shapes of dried watercourses. Shadows are scrawled huge by the low sun. The mountain ridges have gone purple in the granular orange light. He leans back, closes his eyes – and something strikes him that he missed before. Thinks of the pebble. Slides his free hand into his pocket. Too giddy to look but he knows the look of it. The angular lines, the shades of red and blue. Burnt colours. A weird geometry of lines, angles. He looks out again. From above, it makes sense, this land makes sense. You can understand the scale from above. The relationship between the immensity and this tiny pebble pattern. Like macro and micro. If not so nauseous he’d be excited. The pebble as a kind of key. A way in.

  In a humiliatingly short time, they land. All night they drove, all day they walked and, in a few minutes, they are back. The tin roof ridged deeply golden by the setting sun.

  The car is there. Parked in its usual place. No sign of its adventure, except a dent in the roof. How has he got it back? They get out and stand and watch till the plane is nothing but a speck in their eyes against the burning tangerine sky.

  ‘I’ve put your belongings back in your room and I’ve prepared supper,’ Larry says. ‘I expect you’re hungry?’

  ‘We found some melon things and tried them –’ Cassie says.

  ‘Paddy melons!’ Larry shakes his head. ‘You must have been desperate.’

  Cassie laughs suddenly, sounding harsh and mad. ‘God, we must seem like a pair of idiots!’

  ‘We-ll.’ Larry gazes at her and she smiles, almost coy, looking down. But when Larry turns his back she gives Graham a meaningful look. Christ knows what it means, but something.

  They sit down at the kitchen table. There is wine but Cassie doesn’t touch it. Larry urges her several times during the meal. ‘It’s the one you particularly liked,’ he says, eyes flicking down her neck. She smiles but puts her hand over her glass. But Graham gulps it down. Two bottles on the table, one their side, one his. It’s light, cool, refreshing. ‘Just the thing, I thought,’ Larry says, ‘after a day in the sun. Quaffable was how you put it, didn’t you, Cassie?’

  Graham’s grits his teeth. Larry is asking for it, asking for it, asking for it. His fist throbs in time with the blood beating in his head, thudding like footsteps over and over.

  ‘Water would be better, Gray,’ Cassie says but he doesn’t look at her. She nudges his knee under the table with her own and he shifts away.

  The food is a slimy mess of potatoes, bacon, peas. Dull and filling. Eggs in there somewhere, a bit runny. Graham shovels it down mechanically. Sits back and watches the food disappearing down his own maw, the wine swilling after it. Bad idea to drink though, the realisation hits him. Cassie right as usual. Sticking to water which she fetches herself from the tap.

  ‘Eat up,’ Larry says, leaning towards her, ‘I know it’s not up to your standard.’

  ‘Bit sun-struck – not hungry after all,’ Cassie says. ‘Not that it’s not nice,’ she adds quickly. ‘Delicious. Just the thing.’

  Cassie’s dream is of walking, her own two feet plodding and plodding, endlessly plodding over crumbling ground and then there’s a tearing noise, a jerk, the ground splits and she wakes to hear Graham vomiting.

  It’s pitch dark. She fumbles for the torch and shines the puny beam on him. He’s kneeling on the floor by the door. She gets up, goes over, careful not to step in anything. She puts her hand on his shoulder, the skin cold and clammy. The stench of vomit fills the air. He heaves again and half sobs. ‘Sorry, was trying to get out.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. Have you finished?’

  ‘Think so.’

  ‘Back into bed then.’

  She pulls on her dress, pushes her feet into her sandals. The shrinking moon raggy tonight under a tat of cloud. Outside the kitchen door the goanna sits, like something carved in stone. Its eyes swivel at her and then it moves like a clockwork toy out of her way. She drinks some water then takes a cloth and bucket, detergent, fresh water for Graham. The bloody idiot. What does he expect, gulping wine a
s if there’s no such thing as tomorrow after a day in the sun? And his sick makes her feel sick too. She picks her way back to the stinking shed, lights a candle and tries not to breathe in as she crouches down to clear it up.

  Graham mumbles sorry every now and then, but she can’t find it in herself to say, it’s OK. If you’re going to get pissed you could at least clear up after yourself, she thinks as she scrubs at the floor.

  When she’s cleaned up as best she can, she goes out to wash the smell from her hands. The clouds are pearl and silver, beautiful she supposes though she can’t feel their beauty, feels nothing but nausea. Actually – her hand goes to her stomach – actually, she has been feeling a bit – No. It will just be sunstroke. But her nipples prickle and her mouth tastes as if she’s been sucking a penny. Patsy said she knew the moment she conceived. From these same symptoms. From the moment I conceived, she said. Didn’t need even to miss a period to know. Or it could just be sunstroke. Could be.

  Every hour or so all through the night Graham vomits into the bucket by the bed and every time she hauls herself out of sleep, takes it out, tips it out into the dunny, washes her hands. Notices the gradual adjustment of the moon across the sky until at last the sky lightens and the cockerel begins his ignorant racket. And Graham keeps vomiting. By the morning he can’t even sip water without bringing up a stream of bile.

  ‘I should get Larry,’ Cassie says, as he sinks back, clammy and grey.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I know but he is a doctor. Sort of.’

  ‘No.’

  And she does put it off, until he’s so sick he doesn’t care any more. Until there’s no choice.

  Larry doesn’t say much or seem surprised. ‘Sunstroke,’ he says. Goes over to the shearers’ shed and injects Graham with an anti-emetic and when that seems to have worked, gives Cassie some pills to help him rest and recover. He’s actually pretty decent about it considering the trouble they’ve caused. Actually very kind. She is so confused she gives up trying to think at all.

  It’s mid-afternoon before she can even bring herself to consider food. The routine has been shot to bits. Such a blow of homesickness when she thinks about home. Needs, aches to talk to her sister. She sets herself the task of weeding, taking some comfort from the greenery, the cheeping birds, glad of something mindless and time-consuming to do. Larry keeps out of the way. It’s way after lunchtime when he comes out and reminds her, quite gently, that she is still the cook.