Barra Creek

by Di Morrissey

  Back in her own bed, she slept fitfully. Despite Rob’s declarations of love, it weighed in her heart that they had not made any definite plans.

  She was woken in the early dawn by a clap of thunder crashing overhead. She leapt up and rushed along the verandah, her white nightie spotlit every few feet as lightning flashed on and off. She ran into the garden and felt the sharp sting on her skin and breathed in the smell as the first drops of rain hit the thirsty garden. She’d always remember that smell. It was an overpowering ozoney smell that she realised she had been faintly sniffing for the past forty-eight hours. She lifted her face to the hard drops that were now flowing faster. Then behind the curtain of rain came the wind, pushing great streaming torrents. The noise was deafening as the rain hit the tin roofs, slamming against any solid object, the wind whistling. She was soaked through to her skin and for the first time in weeks felt she could take deep clean breaths.

  ‘You’re going to get struck by lightning, get in here,’ shouted John Monroe. He was standing on the verandah, looking amused.

  ‘It’s fantastic! What a sight!’ cried Sally as she ran onto the verandah.

  Two figures in striped pyjamas raced to join them. ‘Wow, here it is!’

  ‘Why’re you wet, Sally?’

  ‘Ooh, it’s just so exciting!’ She took their hands. ‘Quick, pull the beds away from the screens – they’re getting wet.’

  Lorna, wrapped in her dressing-gown, came out and began calmly issuing instructions. ‘All the beds will have to be pulled in towards the centre and the outside doors and louvres closed. Sally, go and get dry clothes on. Boys, get back into bed.’

  Their exuberance faded and everyone began hurrying to get things organised.

  Dressed in dry pyjamas, her hair wrapped in a towel, Sally sat on her bed watching the light show through the vines and screens. The boys had experienced this every year since they were born, so they soon settled to sleep, oblivious to the cacophony.

  ‘Here’s to the Wet.’

  Sally hadn’t heard John Monroe come along the verandah. He handed her a glass of rum.

  ‘Cheers.’ She took a sip. It tasted good, warming her insides that felt rain soaked. ‘So what happens in the Wet around here? How does anyone work?’

  He chuckled. ‘Few do if they can help it. The white blokes will take off for their holidays. We’ll do the occasional bore run and make sure no stock are stuck anywhere. This is the time for maintenance on the plant and equipment. The blacks will stay in their gundies, play cards, tell stories. They find it easy to pass time doing nothing.’

  They sat quietly. It didn’t seem possible but Sally thought the rain was growing even louder, making it hard to talk. Monroe finished his rum and leaned down and touched Sally’s head. ‘Get that wet towel off your head.’ His hand stayed for a moment, then he turned and walked along the verandah.

  ‘Thanks for the rum.’ Sally cupped her hands around the tumbler. If he heard her, he didn’t answer.

  Later that day all the verandah furniture was pulled into the main part of the house. Lorna had flour and sugar bags laid at all the doorways so everyone could step onto them while taking their boots off. It was a house rule that shoes and boots were taken off before going inside and the boys knew better than to put a muddy boot near the verandah.

  Sally couldn’t believe the intensity of the rain and the fact it had barely stopped. ‘It’s not going to rain like this for months is it?’ she asked at breakfast as John Monroe pulled on his heavy oilskin coat.

  ‘Too right. Why do you think it’s called the Wet? We need this. It was a piss-weak one last year, very unusual.’

  With the Aboriginal men away and the early start of the wet season, it appeared the deluge had unleased a torrent of fights and passion among the women in the camp. By late morning the rain had eased but it was still steamy. In the schoolhouse the lesson was disrupted by a commotion coming from the kitchen.

  ‘Keep your heads down, kids,’ Sally said firmly. ‘You too Ginger, Frankie, Alice.’

  ‘Dat be Betsy. Maybe baby come,’ said Frankie.

  Sally pulled on her gumboots and squelched to the kitchen where Betsy, looking very pregnant indeed, was shouting for Lorna.

  ‘What’s up? Are you all right, Betsy?’ called Sally.

  ‘Big fight longa Mattie an’ Tilla . . . whack ’em good, make ’em big cut, firetick.’

  Sally knew Tilla was a big lazy woman and Mattie sometimes hung around Snowy. ‘Who are they fighting? What’s going on with the fire stick? I’ll get Missus.’

  Sally raced inside but Lorna was already putting on her shoes. ‘Sally, get the first-aid kit, the box and the bag.’

  ‘Is it bad? What is going on? I thought all the men were away.’

  ‘That’s when the trouble starts. They argue and fight over a man. When the men are in camp they’re too busy lying down or getting in swags to fight each other.’

  ‘Can I help?’ Sally couldn’t imagine women seriously fighting.

  ‘Maybe, take the small bag.’ Lorna picked up a rifle and headed for the Land Rover. ‘Tell the boys to stay in the schoolroom.’

  Lorna drove through the wet grass and under dripping trees that a day before were dry and dusty. Dogs and small children scattered as they drove into the camp. Some kids were splashing in the rain puddles, chasing each other and throwing mud with great hilarity. A knot of women were standing around the remains of a damped-down campfire. Old chairs, empty tins, drums and rubbish were scattered around. The women were waving and gesticulating, some were holding heavy waddies. Lorna blew the horn and they slowly parted.

  Two women were facing each other and to Sally’s horror they were holding smouldering fire sticks. Mattie lifted her stick and hit Tilla across the head. Tilla didn’t flinch, she just let the hot stick bounce off her frizzled hair. Then as her head cleared, she retaliated, whacking Mattie on the shoulder. Mattie didn’t duck or attempt to move.

  Lorna sailed in between them and Sally gasped as she saw the dreadful wounds they’d inflicted on each other. Lorna made them sit down and, seeing Lizzie, waved her forward. ‘You tell them, all done now.’

  Lizzie nodded emphatically and burst into a loud, rapid harangue directed at the wounded women. Then she smiled at Lorna. ‘All pinish, done. Dem no more cranky. Dem deaf-adder all done fightin’. Man belong Tilla, come back, longa time. Be down wit Mattie. No more belonga Tilla,’ she explained.

  ‘Heavens, they’ve really bashed into each other,’ said Sally. Blood was oozing from the long gashes and some skin had been burnt. ‘What’s with the deaf-adder?’ she asked as Lorna pulled out disinfectant and poured it onto a cloth.

  ‘Death adders, that’s what they call gossipy old crones. I’m going to have to stitch some of these.’ Matter of factly she took out a needle and nylon thread. ‘Lizzie, make up ash paste for these burns.’

  ‘Yes, Miz, make ’em up pix ’em up.’

  With two other women Lizzie began scooping ash from the edge of the fire, which they mixed with some dried leaves and bark. The injured women were now cheerfully chattering, honour having been established and some agreement reached over the absent man.

  The paste was applied to the burns, Lorna expertly stitched up the wounds and packed away her medical kit. She shook her finger at Lizzie. ‘You tell them no more fighting. I’m going away and Miss Mitchell can’t fix them up. No sewing up, no medicine.’

  Sally shook her head, aghast. ‘I can’t do any of that. Not me, not at all.’ Once again she admired the ever-capable Lorna.

  Awkwardly Lorna stood up. ‘And you be on time in the kitchen for breakfast tomorrow, Lizzie. No pink-hi, you cook, quick smart.’

  ‘You-hi, Missus. You-hi.’

  ‘She might say yes now, but when there’s been a blue like this, it rattles the routine for days,’ sighed Lorna.

  ‘Can’t you stop them? They looked like they were going to kill each other. Just as well you were a nurse. I couldn’t do that.’
r />   ‘If you have to, you do,’ said Lorna calmly. ‘As soon as the men come back, those two will be up at the store for new dresses, best mates again. They can be free and easy with their sexual favours but they’re still women and silly enough to argue over a man.’ She glanced at Sally as she started the Land Rover. ‘Men aren’t worth it.’

  Insects and bugs flourished in the Wet – hairy caterpillars and triangular stink bugs were on everything. The frogs seemed to have multiplied by the thousands and sang through the night, revelling in the sodden ground and pools. The sound was deafening. John warned Sally to look out for snakes and to be careful by the river in case it had flooded a nest of croc eggs and a mad mother crocodile was busy defending them.

  Lorna began to worry. ‘John, how am I going to get out? Snowy says the runway is a bog.’

  ‘Looks like it’s easing off this morning. We might have a break for a couple of days. Fitzi and the boys should come in from walkabout now the Wet’s here. They’ll know. Let’s wait till then.’

  By nightfall the rain and lightning strikes were back, the power generator was hit and it felt as if Barra Creek was cut off from the rest of the country.

  Monroe got busy on the wireless and returned to tell Lorna, ‘There’s only one thing for it, love, the milk run. Spoke to Cliff over at Billy Springs, he says he’s taking his truck into Croydon, we can still get over the big creek and you can pick up the Gulflander from there into Normanton. Then fly on to Cairns.’

  ‘And how will you get back?’

  ‘I reckon I can pick up a boat or barge heading up river from Karumba to Normanton.’

  ‘Is Cliff sure he can get over the train bridge at the big creek? I suppose that means planking the car over.’

  ‘Yeah, we’ve done it before.’

  The narrow wooden bridge was only a little wider than the width of the train gauge, with no fence on either side. John Monroe turned on his heel as Lorna bit her lip. She had been ready to leave for weeks, but now that arrangements were made, she looked pale, and for the first time since Sally had known her, unsure.

  Rob later told Sally not to worry. It was very early in the Wet, the river wouldn’t be too high. ‘It’s washed over that bridge before this. If there was a real emergency the Cairns Aerial Ambulance would pick her up.’

  Barra Creek’s northern neighbour Cliff Field, from Billy Spring Station, rolled up in his heavy-duty, high-wheel-base Land Rover and Lorna and John Monroe drove off after a lingering goodbye with the boys and Lorna repeating instructions to Sally.

  The men tried to make Lorna as comfortable as possible but the road was pot-holed and sludgy with the rain. They pressed on, though, anxious to get over the river before dark. Late afternoon they arrived at the tributary, which was full and flowing fast but hadn’t risen to the bridge or overflowed the banks. The men had brought along six planks, which they laid over the train line on the bridge so the Land Rover could drive over, stop-starting as they carried the planks forward so the vehicle could drive on a little further. Lorna found sitting in the four-wheel drive tedious and uncomfortable and, much as she hated heights, she chose to walk slowly down the middle of the rail line ahead of it. She tried not to look down at the fast-moving water below, and concentrated on the gaps between the sleepers. This was no time to put a foot wrong.

  By dark they were in Croydon, once a bustling gold-mining centre, now virtually a ghost town except for a few houses, a small pub and a store that sold fuel and some basic commodities. They spent the night in the hotel where they slept in a mildewy room with a sagging bed.

  Lorna couldn’t face the greasy breakfast and sipped her tea as John ate heartily.

  The railway line that ran the ninety miles between Croydon and Normanton was not connected to any other line. There were plans to link Cloncurry and Normanton, but with the gold find in Croydon the railway was diverted there instead. The Gardner rail motor, known as the Gulflander, carried passengers and supplies to the remote stations between Croydon and Normanton.

  John helped Lorna into the red and yellow carriage, settled their bags around them and put his feet up on a seat. ‘Not long now, love.’

  ‘For you, but I still have a plane to catch tomorrow.’

  ‘Ah, you can relax in Cairns till it’s time. What are you going to do with yourself?’

  ‘The guesthouse isn’t far from where Marilyn lives. We nursed together down in Melbourne. It will be nice to see her and the family. And there are tests, doctor’s visits . . .’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, well good. You take it easy.’

  ‘John, you will be careful while I’m away, won’t you? No boozing. Spend time with the boys, watch Sally and Rob. You know what I mean.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Lorna, you’re a broken record.’

  Rob, Sally and the boys revelled in having the house to themselves. Sally fantasised that it was their home, the boys their children. They all ate at the big table, and after Lizzie had cleared the dishes they played Monopoly. Rob raided John Monroe’s stash of liquor and brought out a brandy and a port. When the boys had gone to bed, Sally and Rob curled up together on the lounge and sipped the good brandy.

  The ANA plane took off from Normanton for Cairns with Lorna leaning back in her seat, her eyes closed, hands folded over her buckled seat-belt, a resigned expression on her face. John Monroe knew people everywhere he went so it was no trouble to get a lift into Karumba.

  He hit the notorious Animal Bar at the Karumba Lodge, which took him a day to sleep off.

  A few mornings later John got up at sunrise. He vaguely remembered the arrangement he’d made for a ride back to Normanton on a barge that was ferrying machinery up the Norman River, and the captain had agreed to drop him off at Barra Creek.

  He stepped outside his motel room and noticed a drop in temperature. He glanced up at the sky, above the start of the sunrise, to see the phenomenon of the Morning Glory.

  Across the horizon rolled several long pipe-shaped clouds that turned over and over in an unbroken line from one side of the sky to the other. A fast wind was whipping them along and it looked like rain might follow. It could be an uncomfortable trip up river but he stayed and studied the strange cloud that he’d heard only ever appeared in the Gulf of Carpentaria and the Gulf of Mexico.

  John stepped on board the barge carrying a box of booze, which received frowns from the other two passengers – a Pentecostal minister and a teetotaller drover called Billy Jumpup. With a bottle of rum in his pocket, John Monroe passed the day drinking and yarning with the captain.

  They were still drinking after they had dropped off all the other passengers. By the time they were in the vicinity of Barra Creek it was dark and they were both drunk and found it hard to see the small landing. Finally the captain anchored the barge, stood on the bow and fired three rifle shots into the air. Rob and Sally didn’t hear, they were playing records and teaching the boys to dance. But Fitzi heard and ran to the river with a fire stick and waved them in to the landing.

  John Monroe was very drunk. He threw his haversack to Fitzi and heaved the box of bottles onto the gunwhale, shouting directions to the captain who reversed the barge into the landing, hitting it with a shudder that sent the bottles splashing into the river.

  ‘Bloody hell, that’s good rum,’ shouted Monroe, and jumped over the side into the mud, sinking to his knees. ‘Fitzi, get over here with the light.’

  The flame from the fire stick didn’t throw much light and Monroe shouted at the captain to shine the torch.

  Monroe found the floating box and threw it to Fitzi, then probed the mud with his feet and hands, locating most of the bottles.

  ‘You’re bloody mad, mate. I’m not putting a foot in there,’ exclaimed the barge captain as he helped pull John Monroe free and watched him scramble onto the landing.

  ‘Take the grog up to the house, Fitzi. Thanks for the lift, mate.’ Monroe gave a shaky wave and stumbled after Fitzi, then remembered how far it was to the homestead, sat down by a tree
and passed out.

  Rob heard the clink of bottles in the kitchen, saw Fitzi looking grim and realised what must have happened.

  ‘Sal, get the boys ready for bed, their dad is home. Not in good shape, I’d say.’

  Ian and Tommy were behind Sally.

  ‘Where is he?’ asked Tommy.

  ‘Passed out near the river, I reckon,’ said Rob. ‘We’ll drive down and get him before he’s croc bait.’

  ‘Silly old bugger. Leave him there,’ said Ian and left the room followed by Tommy.

  Sally and Rob exchanged a glance and Rob gave her a quick kiss. ‘Keep out of Monroe’s way. I’d say he hasn’t been sober for days.’

  Sally and the boys heard John Monroe stumble and crash into his bed but Sally kept reading quietly. While the boys were both competent readers, they still liked Sally to read ‘hard’ books to them, explaining ideas or words as she went along. Once they had gone to sleep she put the book aside and tiptoed along the verandah and peeped around the partition. John Monroe was sprawled across the bed, a sheet pulled over him, a pile of muddy clothes and boots on the floor, a half-empty bottle of rum beside him.

  The rain started again and Sally fell asleep, comforted by the now familiar sound. But she woke not long before dawn. She rolled over and went rigid. Through her partially closed eyes she could see the floor and not far from her bed were the unmistakable bare, muddy feet of John Monroe. Pretending to still be asleep, she saw through her eyelashes that he was sitting on the empty bed in the row along the verandah staring at her. His hands were on his knees as he watched her. In the pale light she couldn’t read his expression but she was unnerved.

  Ian coughed and rolled on his side, unknowingly breaking a strange spell.

  John Monroe got up and padded silently down the verandah.

  Chapter Fifteen