Bruce gave Laura’s arm a pat. She opened her mouth to speak, but he was already running away through the smoke.
‘You ’right, Vik?’ she said.
Vik nodded shakily, biting her lip.
Near dusk it seemed true: they were going to be okay. Most of the spot fires were under control, everything smoking but no longer aflame. The kitchen was wet, filled with soot and smoke, the curtains gone forever. But it surprised Laura to discover that it wouldn’t take much more than a bit of paint and elbow grease to repair the rest of the damage. They’d been lucky.
Staggering, Joseph and Laura finally found each other under the big gum.
‘You ’right, fucktard?’ he croaked.
Laura grinned weakly. She stepped into his arms, pressing her face against his narrow chest, inhaling the smell of smoke and sweat seeped into his clothes. She couldn’t believe it; they had saved the house.
‘Sorry about your bike,’ she said.
‘Dad’ll be happy,’ Joseph said ruefully. ‘Never liked me riding it.’
He lifted a hand to her hair. Laura gave the familiar body a quick squeeze, then stepped back. Across the yard, the place where Kath’s studio had stood was still smoking. Laura turned away from its absence.
When Joseph took the ute into town to check on his folks, she rejoined Bruce and Vik. They continued to move around the yard, compulsively looking the place over, clutching their scorched buckets, their smoking rags. The checking would go on into the night, tomorrow, maybe for days, until they got rain, cool weather. The ground was still so hot that Laura’s feet felt burned through the soles of her boots. They would need to be vigilant. The front had passed, but fires still flared. It was alive, Laura saw. It wanted to live.
For now, she found herself motionless – for the first time in her life, it seemed. Standing beside Bruce, she stared down into the valley, that bed of hot coals. The charred sky made what was still burning all the brighter. What wasn’t burning, smoked. As they watched, some flames flickered and went out.
Bruce coughed, spat. Nothing came up. Vik sagged against the side of the house, pouring water into her eyes. Her skin was pale and clean, her hands gloved in soot. Laura held her own hands awkwardly, afraid to look. They were throbbing now, the pain a pulse. She thought fleetingly of the desperate promises she had made under the big gum and guiltily buried them. There was no one up there to care, not really. What did it matter what bargains she had made?
Bruce sat heavily on a step. His mask of grime was darker in the wrinkles on his forehead. Laura’s raw eyes felt damaged. She lowered her head to Vik’s shoulder. It was more than either could manage to turn up the corners of their lips.
Bruce sighed. ‘Bloody lucky,’ he said. He was working over the smoking ruins with his eyes: the chook house, the blackened shearing shed, the seared and smoking hills.
Laura listened to the soft, familiar bleating of the sheep that had survived. She would have to round them up and check them. Shoot the ones that needed it: ‘lead therapy’.
Bruce wiped an eye with the heel of his hand and faced them. ‘You did good,’ he said to Laura. And to Vik, ‘You too, love. Even you.’
Laura turned and kissed Vik’s head.
How depressing it was to live for months in a singular palette: grey, charcoal, black. It was strange to consider what had gone up in smoke and what had survived. There seemed no logic to it, no reason for one thing to be saved while another disappeared. Their big gum was almost untouched; the Jolleys’ house down the road was gone. Bruce’s verandah would need rebuilding, but Laura’s shovel stood in the earth of the garden where she had left it, wooden handle somehow intact. She couldn’t begin to understand how that was possible. The randomness frightened her.
Having survived, Laura saw that no matter how hard they worked, how carefully they planned, there was no guarantee that any good would come of it. Too much was outside their control. The natural world had no master plan. There was no God, no log or ledger for who was good and deserving, who needed punishment. Things just happened. Sometimes you got lucky. Sometimes you burned.
Winter came and went, and the rain brought some measure of healing. In spring, Laura worked the veggie garden, a restorative, restful job: almost time off.
As the next summer approached, she noticed yellow shoots probing through the blackened earth in the paddocks. She found Bruce squatting, examining them.
‘Buggers are growing back,’ he said. ‘The trees!’
He yanked out a tiny sapling and held it up for her to see. Thin roots like grey hairs, threaded with dirt. Leaves the colour of summer moss. Laura’s biceps ached, remembering that childhood clearing work. She still dreamed of stacking wood.
Bruce tutted. They stared at each other.
Laura said, ‘It’s not bloody progress if we go back to square one!’
‘Too right.’ Bruce stared at the sapling clenched in his hand. And suddenly, he chuckled. ‘Let’s not stress. Reckon the sheep’ll take care of them soon enough.’
Laura was squatting in the shade of the new shearing shed when she heard Vik get the news. A great, joyous whoop ricocheted across the paddock, confirming what Laura had guessed from the university crest on the envelope, the return address – Scholarship Office. Vik’s dream of being a land surveyor would come true then. The terrible sinking feeling took Laura by surprise. Easing up, she balanced the paintbrush on top of the white tin of paint and turned to look down at the house, shading her eyes against the glare.
In the valley, the dirty speck of a school bus headed along the highway into town. Laura worked her knuckles into her lower spine. The screen door slammed. Vik shot over the verandah rail. She came skidding to a halt in front of Bruce, who was crossing the yard, wheelbarrow loaded with tools. He must have caught something in Vik’s expression, because he eased the barrow down and stepped around it, pulling off his gloves.
Vik seemed to hesitate when Bruce extended his hand for the letter, but she reluctantly passed it over and stood hugging herself while he read. After carefully replacing the fold of paper in the envelope, Bruce brought his hands to his hips, as though uncertain where to put them. Vik was already turning away, hastily scrunching the letter down into her pocket, shoulders slumped. In one movement, Bruce had his hat off and Vik in his arms.
The new shearing shed was half-primed, a week’s work done. Another two, maybe three, to go. Vik barrelled down the drive on her bike, dragging dust – off to celebrate with friends, no doubt. Bruce stood watching. Laura watched him, felt the trajectory of her life in the million neat little brush-strokes she had yet to make.
Vik would go up to the city, as Laura had known she would. Of course, she wanted Vik to go, had worked damn hard, in her own way, to ensure Vik’s life would be different to her own: free of the crushing price of wool. She had loved Vik as best she could. What started as penance became pleasure over the years: to watch Vik flourish became its own reward. Only sometimes it bothered Laura – she wasn’t a saint; she knew her limitations – the way Vik seemed to take it for granted, Laura’s care. She didn’t need a parade, for God’s sake, but a small amount of gratitude now and then might have made things easier to endure. But that was unfair, Laura chastised herself. Vik hadn’t asked for any of it. Kath wasn’t Vik’s fault. Laura had been the difficult child. If anyone was implicated in Kath’s decision to leave, it was her.
Laura knew she would find a way to scrub and arrange her face before Vik got back. There would be time to cook something celebratory: Vik’s favourite rabbit stew. She would set the table the way they did at Christmas, paper napkins edged with paper lace. When Vik walked in, Laura’s arms, firm as packed sand, would be thrown around her neck, recognition of the hours Vik had sat writing at her desk. Laura would allow herself to feel a thimbleful of pride, for all the years she had cut Vik’s hair and ironed her clothes and tucked her in to bed. That Vik had made it – more than made it, done well – seemed to Laura an acknowledgement: she had done so
mething right. But for the moment, like a snake-bit dog, she needed somewhere private to grapple with her wounds.
The blackened shell of their dead ute was parked on bricks at the far side of the yard, dry needles littering the roof and bonnet – her spot. In the decrepit cab it was easy to believe that she was going places.
Her abilities were with chainsaw, with shovel and with wrench. At least, that was what she had always told herself. She thought of Bruce, the look on his face when she cracked the lid of a pot on the stove, releasing tendrils of steam. She remembered Vik sobbing, the quiet routine of her tears in the months after Kath left, with no expectation of relief. Laura understood: whether the life she had made was shaped by her failures in some areas or abilities in others, what she had was all that she could ask for. And since she had no better ideas, it was all that she deserved.
Laura picked at the flecks of white paint on her hands. A crow flapped down, green-black and glossy. By the road, sheep nosed threadbare pasture. She threw her head back, brought her clenched fist down hard on the split foam seat. It felt good to pummel something. Her fist went in deep. Then she flicked open the glove box and pulled out her smokes. Lit one, drew the acrid smoke into her lungs. There was a dip in the back of the driver’s seat, worn by the weight of Bruce. It fit Laura perfectly. ‘Fuck!’ she said. Dangling the cigarette out the driver’s window, she practised the posture of truck drivers, and women smokers with kids.
‘Ease up, love.’
Laura almost dropped the smoke in the grass. Bruce stepped up to the window, leaned in. He touched her forearm with his thumb, stroking her skin lightly, like polishing away a spot.
‘Got another one of those?’
Laura flinched, despite herself. Bruce’s gaze was steady, eyes smiling. He gave the driver-side door two firm pats and went around the ute. He had to lean back to get the passenger side open.
‘What a bloody rust bucket,’ he said, climbing in.
They stared down at the scorched land. Laura passed the pack. She didn’t know whether to watch Bruce smoke or look away. She dealt with it by perfecting the arc of cigarette to lips. Flowing in from outside, air hot as breath.
‘So your sister …’ Bruce broke off, tapped a long grub of ash to the floor.
‘Yeah,’ Laura said. ‘I know.’
‘Smart cookie, that Vik.’
Laura blinked to keep from rolling her eyes. If there were a soundtrack to her life, the chorus would be ‘Your sister’s real smart!’
‘Lucky her,’ she said dully.
Bruce pinched his smoke out between forefinger and thumb. ‘Know what, but? You’re a clever one. Always thought that.’
Laura’s grim smile was clamped in place to hold back tears. Her hand lay between them on the seat. Bruce took it, and gave a gentle squeeze.
‘Listen, love. Been thinking and that.’ He cleared his throat. ‘This city thing is something you should maybe think about.’
Laura’s hand flew to clasp the small key on a chain around her neck. ‘Think about?’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Might’ve been a wrong kind of, you know. A wrong thing I didn’t say this sooner.’
Laura stared at his weatherworn face, that familiar terrain. His nose was discoloured by a lifetime of outdoor work. Like small red threads, broken capillaries were stitched across his cheeks. His hair was greying. It was far greyer in reality, Laura realised, than it was in her mind.
‘You can’t do everything here on your own, Dad!’
Bruce tightened his grip on her hand. He brushed at a fly. ‘Nah, listen. Gotta be a few young blokes ’round here looking for work, this time of year.’
The idea! That she could just pack up and leave. ‘But,’ Laura said, more to herself than to Bruce, ‘but what would I do?’
Bruce grinned broadly. Excited, he jiggled on the seat. ‘Occurs to me,’ he said breathlessly, ‘that we could use some new ideas for how to take care of the joint.’
He dug into the back pocket of his jeans and tweezed out a crumpled paper. Laura recognised his expression; she saw it every year. Unwrapping, she would steel herself, working to summon the right amount of gratitude for each birthday gift got slightly wrong. She took the paper and smoothed the pamphlet out. Diploma of Agriculture, she mouthed. She shivered, dropped the paper and pressed her hands into her armpits. She felt like she was bleeding – every warm ounce of possibility was pumping out.
Laura saw that she would go only to come back. Since she had never intended to leave, what did it matter? Bruce was still grinning. She dragged her eyes to his face. It was her fault. She had made her life what it was. She remembered that time when Kath’s fingers had sought Bruce’s across the table; their hands had locked together, a tongue-in-groove joint.
‘Says they teach all about drought and that,’ Bruce said.
Laura couldn’t bear the hopeful pleasure with which he scooped the pamphlet up. She let him talk on. She could do the course in Melbourne, he said. Be close to Vik. And – he winked – to Joseph. It was, Laura saw, already worked out. With the mention of that far-off city, Kath’s letters, never far below the surface, rose sharply up through Laura’s mind. Who knew where their mother was now – if she was even alive. The thought of running into her on the street, confronting the physical reality of her, was horrifying.
As Laura leaned her head against the rim of the driver-side window, her body was curiously numb. The last few years had been tough. Little rainfall, the sinking price of stock. She hated culling starved sheep, the way they twitched, tangled in the ditch. Worse, the workload never lightened. Tough times or not, things needed doing. They worked as hard as ever, but at a loss.
‘So,’ Bruce said in the ute. ‘Whatcha reckon, love?’
Laura squared herself in her seat. She lifted her chin, though it felt anchored.
‘Good one, Dad,’ she said.
His arm wrapped her shoulders. The ancient upholstery crackled. Laura lay her head against his neck. He stroked her hair, settled back against the seat and sighed.
Laura helped Vik pack the ute. They carried luggage across the baking yard. Laura piled the boxes in the tray as though building a funeral pyre.
‘Dad said you’re thinking of studying in Sydney,’ Vik ventured, nervously adjusting her glasses, ‘not Melbourne?’
Laura pursed her lips, avoiding Vik’s eye. She drew an elastic cord across the suitcases, snagging the hook on the lip of the tray, and tested it with her weight. ‘Nothing’s been decided.’
Vik frowned. Laura turned her back. She leaned in through the ute’s open window, snapped open the glove box. The present didn’t look like much, wrapped in old Christmas paper. Vik almost dropped the package when Laura thrust it into her hands.
‘What’s this?’ she asked.
Laura shrugged.
Vik tore the paper clumsily. The wad of elastic band-bound notes whispered as she fanned them with her thumb. ‘But, Lor! It’s too much!’
‘Not to worry,’ Laura said casually. ‘Use it, you know. For your study.’
Vik gaped. Her cheeks were pink. Laura took the wad back and threw herself into the task of wedging it deep inside Vik’s case, shrugging off protests. Vik seemed on the brink of tears. Laura knew what her sister was thinking, because she would have thought the same thing herself: how long Laura must have been saving, going without. She recalled their blue school uniforms, patched year after year; Bruce’s painful teeth, browned for lack of care. She thought of the school excursions they had missed to save admission fees, the broken furniture she had carefully repaired. Even Vik would know what such a sum meant to the farm.
‘It came from Dad, really,’ Laura said. Unbelievably, she hadn’t thought to prepare an excuse for the origin of the funds, thinking only of passing them on, finally. ‘Dad sold Mutti’s pots, years ago, and put the money away.’ Laura could hardly believe her horrible audacity, the ease with which the lies rolled out. But what did Vik know? Laura had done the shopping and bill-paying an
d banking for years, squirrelling supermarket coupons. ‘Don’t mention this to Dad, okay?’ she went on. ‘You know what he’s like. It will only upset him, you bring it up.’
Vik fumbled with Laura’s elbow. Her eyes were full of tears. But she nodded, biting her lip. ‘So we do have something of hers, after all,’ she said quietly.
Laura suppressed a sigh, relief and exasperation, like bile. Vik would believe the story because it suited her. It was what she wanted to hear.
Later, when Vik was gone, driven by Bruce to the fancy college in the city, Laura walked listlessly through the empty house and went to strip her sister’s bed. But the task somehow exhausted her, and she sank down onto the bare mattress, cradling the laundry in her arms. She pressed her face into white cotton and breathed in Vik’s smell, crushed by the fact of her departure.
She wished then, in the way another person might long for salvation, that she had set the money down as Vik was leaving. She might have put her arms around her sister. She might have found something meaningful to say, a way to explain how much Vik would be missed. Instead, she had busied herself at the ute with the last bits of luggage, working the straps around Vik’s belongings, securing them down.
‘Funny year,’ Bruce said, surfacing through the clatter of knives on porcelain. He put a piece of lamb in his mouth and chewed, precise as threading a needle. Laura fiddled the potatoes on her plate. It was too hot for roast, but it was Sunday, and it was lunch.
‘Heard Peterson’s shipping water in. He can afford it, but.’
The phone rang. Bruce heaved up. Laura observed him answering: the expectant, ‘Yes?’
Other people, she understood, could answer the telephone mildly, distractedly, like they had better things to do. Not so here, where any call might still be a lead, some information, the long-awaited granting of an end. Laura had lived with Bruce’s hope for so long, she almost believed in it herself. Except she didn’t. Buried deep inside was the knowledge that no one would discover her mother and call, unless it was – a terrible thought – Kath herself.
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