Windflowers

by Tamara McKinley

  ‘This epic drove will cross some of Australia’s harshest country and be joined by others coming down from the northern stations. It’s estimated there will be over sixteen thousand head of cattle in the main body of the drove and it will take at least eight months to reach Brisbane. The drove boss asks that all station owners on the route give them access to as much water as they can spare. He is well aware of the drought, and knows this is a desperate gamble, but it’s vital we get these cattle through.’

  Aurelia turned off the radio when the broadcast was over and sat back in her chair. ‘They’ll be lucky to get more than a third through,’ she said with a sigh. ‘As for water to spare…’ She fell silent.

  ‘Good on ‘em, I say,’ said Ellie forcefully. ‘I only wish we were a part of it. It sounds exciting, and we’d be making history.’

  ‘We’re better keeping our stock alive here without dragging them all the way to Brisbane. The calves wouldn’t make it, and the breeders would dry up. Jacky Jack said the fats were difficult enough to handle on the last drove to Longreach, and he had to keep pushing them through the night so they could make the miles between the surviving water-holes. He was lucky to have had so few losses.’

  ‘I could do with a bit of excitement,’ Ellie said restlessly.

  ‘There’ll be excitement enough if the Japs attack again,’ said Aurelia sharply. ‘Darwin’s not that far away if they take over the northern shore and set up an airfield.’

  There was a protracted silence as they all digested the reality of their situation. Life was hard enough, but the thought of invasion was something they’d never contemplated before.

  Yet they were not alone – for Prime Minister Curtin had become angry at Winston Churchill’s refusal to allow Australian troops to protect their own country. He ignored Churchill’s protest and ordered the returning troops from Africa to be diverted to Australia.

  Australia’s position was critical. Her fighting strength was below par because of their dispersal around Europe and Africa, all were poorly equipped and there were practically no tanks or aircraft and very few fighting ships.

  Curtin had to face the grim situation, and did it with a realism that won him many admirers. ‘Without inhibitions of any kind,’ he declared. ‘I make it quite clear that from now on Australia looks to America, free of any pangs as to our traditional links or kinship with the United Kingdom.’

  Ten days later a group of ten Japanese aircraft flew south from Timor to one of the main refuelling points in Australia. There were no defences except for a few .303 rifles of the Homeguard because intelligence believed this western port lay beyond the fuel range of Japanese aircraft.

  The Japanese struck at nine thirty in the morning, jettisoning their long range fuel tanks on arrival, their tracer bullets setting fire to the group of sixteen flying boats that lay helpless in the water with their cargoes of women and children.

  It was Broome’s darkest day.

  11

  Ellie came back to the present, shocked at how swiftly the day had changed. The sky was leaden, the sun masked by a blanket of cloud as the first heavy splashes of rain soaked her blouse and jeans. She hurriedly pulled on her jacket and zipped it to her chin. It wasn’t the chill wind making her shiver, but the thought of climbing back down. For the rain had polished the rocks to gleaming ebony and she knew she wouldn’t find the return journey quite so easy.

  With a glance over her shoulder, she contemplated sitting the downpour out in the cave. But it could last for hours, right through the night, and the two-way radio was in the ute. There was no other choice. She had to go down. ‘Bloody idiot,’ she muttered as she eased her way from the overhang and found a tentative foothold. ‘You knew it would rain again, yet you sat there dreaming the day away without an intelligent thought in your head.’

  She gripped the slippery stone, edging ever downwards, her feet scuffling for purchase. One wrong move and she’d plunge to the ground. Although she’d never been fearful of heights – this was definitely too high, too wet and too bloody dangerous. The rain soaked her, the sweat chilled on her skin as the wind grew stronger. She was in deep trouble but determined not to panic.

  She paused to catch her breath, clinging to the face of the outcrop, her fingers numb from gripping the narrow fissures in the rock. Edging her foot over she found a niche, but as she put her weight on it she felt it give. Her foot slid away with the loose stones, her fingers clawed as she desperately tried to maintain a hold and return her balance to the other foot. Swinging her free leg up, she rammed her boot into a shallow hollow and with every ounce of strength she possessed, hauled herself back into position.

  Her breath was a sob, her heart banging against her ribs. Rain and sweat stung her eyes and her hair plastered wetly to her face as she clung to the outcrop. She had to get down. Had to get off this rock. But most of all she had to remain calm – one moment of panic could make her careless.

  Ellie sniffed and blinked the rain and sweat from her eyes. If it had been sunny and warm she wouldn’t have been such a baby, she thought scornfully. It was just a rock – one she’d climbed hundreds of times as a kid. She’d climbed up – she could get down. With cold determination she clawed a hold on a narrow ledge. Keeping her chest close to the rocks, she scraped the toe of her boot down until she found a fissure and dug in. Then she moved the other foot – the other hand.

  She lost all sense of time as she slowly and painfully descended that steep rock-face, and was just congratulating herself on how well she was doing when a startled bird shot out of a hole and into her face.

  With a cry of surprise she lost her balance. But this time it was too late to find another hold. This time she had no chance to save herself.

  *

  ‘I thought your mother was coming over today?’ said Angel as they watched the vast road train splash through the mud on its way to the main highway.

  Leanne looked at her watch. The rain was dripping off her hatbrim and down her neck, and although she wore a full-length waterproof coat over her moleskins and sweater, she could feel the chill of it seeping through. ‘I expect she decided not to come because of the weather. No worries. I’ll give Warratah a ring when we get back to the homestead.’

  She trudged through the mud to where they’d tethered the horses. The animals looked miserable, their heads drooping as they reluctantly cropped the grass beneath the coolibahs. She knew how they felt. She too was cold and miserable and she regretted the hasty words she’d flung at Angel the night before. He’d tried to explain he hadn’t meant for her to hand over half of Jarrah, but that he simply wanted to be a part of it. He felt isolated, and not a little miffed at her passion for the place, and she couldn’t blame him. It was as if Jarrah had taken her over.

  ‘Let’s hope the road train makes it to the highway before the track gets impassable,’ said Angel as he swung his leg over the saddle and caught the reins. ‘Won’t this weather hold up things?’

  She glanced across at him and felt the familiar lurch of longing. He still looked handsome, even with the rain dripping from his bush hat and the dust of the day’s work clinging to his face. ‘It will if it keeps up,’ she said. ‘But the forecast is good and this should clear by tomorrow.’

  Angel smiled back, his long lashes sparkling with raindrops. ‘At least we can go home each night,’ he said. ‘Your poor father is stuck out on the plains. It can’t be very pleasant.’

  Leanne realised he was trying to make amends and although she was sick with curiosity as to what was happening over at Warratah with Claire, she felt her spirits lighten. ‘He’s probably spent more nights out in the rain than you’ve had hot dinners,’ she said cheerfully. ‘And after what he went through in the war, this is nothing.’

  She saw him raise a dark brow, but she wasn’t about to enlighten him. She had only a vague knowledge of what Dad had gone through for he rarely talked of it, but she knew it had been bad, because she could still remember the nightmares he’d suffered when
she was a little girl.

  They rode back to the homestead with the rest of the men. They were a bedraggled lot, with their sodden clothes and miserable horses. The rain hammered down as the horses’ hoofs turned the earth to a red, sticky mud. Trees dripped dolefully and the smoke from the cookhouse fire struggled to find its way out of the chimney. Leanne grinned as she watched the ducks splash and revel on the billabong, then chuckled when she noticed the gallahs hanging upside-down to wash the ticks from their wings. ‘Silly buggers,’ she murmured into her coat collar. At least someone was enjoying the rain.

  They passed through the final gate, across home yard and towards the stables. The horses were rubbed down and fed and watered as Leanne chatted to the drovers and joined in their banter. ‘We’re eating in the cookhouse tonight,’ she told Angel as they prepared to leave the stables. ‘I’m too tired to cook.’

  Angel eyed her for a long moment as if to give her an argument, then obviously thought better of it and shrugged. ‘I could eat anywhere,’ he said. ‘I’m starving.’

  Leanne ducked her head and made a run for it to the cookhouse with Angel following closely behind. The heat was almost overwhelming as they pushed through the door and entered the dining room. It was a large room, with the kitchen at one end, and long tables laid out with benches down the middle. The windows were running with condensation and the noise of boot heels on the wooden floor was accompanied by many voices. Steam rose from the vast cooking pots on the industrial size stove and Cookie was, as usual, in a bad temper.

  ‘Get into flamin’ line,’ he yelled as he waved a meat cleaver about. ‘How am I supposed to feed you blokes if you don’t wait yer bloody turn?’

  ‘Come on mate,’ yelled one of the ringers. ‘Get a flamin’ move on. Me stomach thinks me throat’s been cut.’

  ‘Might as well be,’ yelled another of the men. ‘When you taste it, you’d wish it bloody was.’

  Leanne shoved Angel in front of her and joined the shuffling, raucous queue. She loved it in here, for there was no standing on ceremony, no prissy manners – just honest, hardworking men who spoke their mind and accepted her as one of them.

  Angel looked back at her over his shoulder. ‘You like eating here?’ he asked, his eyes round with amazement.

  Leanne grinned and nodded. ‘Best restaurant in town,’ she replied.

  Cookie slammed the meat cleaver into the chopping block. There was immediate silence. Everyone knew from past experience that Cookie had had enough. He was a big man to argue with – a very big man – with a short fuse. ‘One more word about my cooking and I’ll knock yer flamin’ blocks off,’ he shouted. He glowered over the shuffling queue, arms folded across his vast chest. Satisfied he’d got them under control he nodded. ‘That’s more like it,’ he grumbled as he turned and began to dish out the meat and potatoes and piles of vegetables.

  The noise broke out again as the men carried their loaded plates to the table, but died as the scrape of cutlery took over. Leanne found a place for her and Angel and was soon in conversation with one of the old-timers who’d been on the place for as long as she could remember. She glanced across at Angel who was surreptitiously cleaning his knife and fork on his shirt tail. ‘I wouldn’t let Cookie see you doing that,’ she murmured. ‘He takes great pride in the cleanliness of his kitchen.’

  Angel looked down the length of the table. Cookie was a towering presence, his red, sweating face glowering as he stood like a monolith overseeing the meal. Angel ducked his head and winked at Leanne. ‘Reckon I’d better do as I’m told,’ he muttered. ‘Matron’s watching.’

  Leanne grinned. His joke was endearing and it meant their row was forgotten. She would have to learn to keep her brain in gear with her mouth. They’d had too many arguments, and although the sex was usually terrific afterwards, it didn’t bode well for their future.

  *

  ‘There’s no reply at Jarrah,’ said Claire as she returned to the sitting room. ‘They must all still be out. But I’m surprised Mum hasn’t called.’

  ‘Probably busy,’ muttered Aurelia as she tried to finish the crossword in the paper. ‘It takes time to load the animals up, and with this rain I expect it’ll be the devil’s own job to get those road trains up the track.’

  ‘How soon before Dad gets back?’ Claire sat down, picked up a magazine and then put it aside. She didn’t feel like reading. She was too restless.

  Aurelia looked up from her paper. ‘When he’s finished.’ She put down her pen and sighed. ‘You know how long these things take, Claire. He could be another week or ten days. It depends on the number of stock and how far they had to go to round them up.’

  Claire lit a cigarette and listened to the rain hammering on the roof. It was cosy in here, with a fire roaring up the chimney and the lamps lit, but it felt strange not having either of her parents here to share it with her. ‘I’m surprised he went out on the muster,’ she grumbled. ‘He knew I was coming home.’

  Aurelia gave up on the crossword and folded her arms. ‘The work doesn’t stop just because you’ve come home,’ she reminded her. ‘You had the chance to see him at your graduation, but you didn’t want him there – that hurt, you know. Your parents thought you were ashamed of them.’

  Claire blushed. Her refusal to let them come to her graduation had nothing to do with shame – only on her part. She didn’t think they’d want to be there. ‘I’ll try Mum again,’ she said. ‘They must be back by now.’

  Aurelia grunted. ‘She’ll phone when she’s ready. Do sit down, Claire, you’re making me nervous.’

  Claire hovered in the doorway, eyed the telephone in the hall and tried once more. There was no reply and she put the receiver back. ‘I hope she’s all right,’ she muttered as she returned to her chair by the fire.

  ‘She’s got the two-way in the ute,’ said Aurelia with a hint of sharpness. ‘And Leanne knows she’s on the way. If there was trouble we’d have heard by now.’

  Claire stared out into the darkness then into the fire where the orange flames danced up the chimney and the wood settled into the ashes. The doubts were legion, the question burning to be asked. ‘When Mum first came to Warratah,’ she began.

  ‘Yes?’ Aurelia reached for her pipe.

  ‘Jarrah was a separate station back then, wasn’t it?’

  Aurelia nodded, the pipe in her hand, the matches still on the table beside her.

  Claire noticed the whites of her knuckles as she held that pipe, the tense quality in her shoulders and the alert gleam in those grey eyes. ‘How come we own it now? I thought the Maughans had farmed Jarrah for over a century? Why would they give it up?’

  Aurelia concentrated on lighting her pipe, but Claire noticed how she’d paled, the way she’d avoided eye contact, and wondered why this innocent question should make her aunt look shifty.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ she muttered finally. ‘And very involved. I’ll tell you another day.’

  Claire sat forward, willing her aunt to look her in the eye. ‘We’ve got plenty of time. It’s still early, and I’m staying up until I can get hold of Mum.’

  Aurelia gave an abrupt cough of laughter. ‘It’s all right for you young things,’ she prevaricated. ‘Late nights are all very well, but it’ll soon be way past my bedtime.’ She finally looked at Claire. ‘Besides, shouldn’t you be thinking about tomorrow? Don’t you want to look your best for Matt?’

  Claire waved her suggestions aside. ‘You instigated my home-coming,’ she said quietly. ‘You said there were things that needed airing. Things about Jarrah and the row I’d had with Mum and Dad. You said I was adult enough to face the truth. So why are you reluctant to talk about Jarrah?’ Her tone was calm but firm.

  Aurelia heaved a sigh and stared into the fire. ‘I do wish you weren’t quite so like your mother,’ she murmured. ‘Questions, questions, questions.’ She looked back at Claire and realised she had no alternative but to reveal how Jarrah had become a part of Warratah. ‘It all started during t
he war,’ she began.

  Claire leaned back into the chair, but couldn’t relax. There was something odd going on – but how on earth could the ownership of Jarrah have anything to do with the suspicions that had driven her away? Then she remembered the solitary gravestone and a chill ran up her spine. Perhaps there was a link – a link that until this moment she hadn’t considered.

  Aurelia sat forward in her chair, her gaze fixed on the fire. Her pipe remained cold and forgotten in her hand. ‘After Curtin told Churchill where to stuff his organisation, General MacArthur arrived in the Philippines. He brought the American fleet and thousands of troops, equipment, munitions and aircraft – all the things we were so short of. The enemy had now moved into New Guinea and the Solomon Islands. Invasion was imminent, and Australia went on full wartime footing. Civilian labour was directed to munitions factories, the docks, building airfields and a strategic north-south road through Australia’s heartlands. Food, clothing, petrol and all luxuries were rationed and taxes were increased.’

  Claire shifted in the chair. ‘I asked about Jarrah,’ she said with restless impatience. ‘Not about the war.’

  ‘The war had a bearing on everything we did,’ retorted Aurelia as she gave Claire one of her withering glares. ‘If you want to hear about Jarrah, then you’ll have to be patient.’

  Claire reddened and kept silent. Aurelia still had the power to make her feel like a naughty child, and she knew she’d overstepped the mark.

  ‘Mickey Maughan arrived at Warratah shortly after the attack on Broome. His usual jovial mood seemed muted, but there was a purpose in his long stride as he crossed the yard to the homestead verandah. Alicia and I were having a quick breakfast before joining your mother in the pasture where she was helping with the fence posting.’