Love in the Age of Drought

by Fiona Higgins

  Sheltered from the wind behind Stuart’s broad back, I gazed at the grass country flashing past me. He plants GM cotton, but he won’t plough up all of his land. How many farmers out there are like Stu?

  Stuart guided the four-wheeler over a drain in the road and we raced between paddocks, slowing near a V-shaped water channel.

  ‘This is a head-ditch. I use it to move water around the farm. And I’ve got one more thing to show you,’ he said, switching off the ignition.

  Taking my hand, he helped me from the seat. We scrabbled halfway up the bank of the head-ditch and squatted on our haunches. Stuart unfolded the bed sheet he had taken from the house earlier and wrapped it around us, in defence against the circling mosquitoes.

  ‘Welcome to the Gebar Planetarium,’ Stuart said, gesturing skyward.

  We lay back on the head-ditch, the earth our deck chairs, and awaited the Milky Way’s nightly revelation. Gradually, stars and satellites emerged in their orbits above us. The sky’s expanse awed me with its majesty; its vastness was both beautiful and disquieting. A shooting star streaked across the sky, its light extinguished with a final golden flash. Stuart’s hand found mine as we lay in wordless union, under a blanket of diamonds.

  CHAPTER 9

  ‘Welcome to your new home!’ the stranger called brightly, tapping insistently on my office door.

  I smiled, cradling the telephone between my ear and shoulder, hands gesticulating towards the mouthpiece. ‘I’m on the phone,’ I mouthed silently, in a friendly, just-a-moment way.

  The stranger removed her hat, slid the door open and stepped into the room. ‘Don’t mind me, I’ll wait,’ she declared loudly.

  I raised an eyebrow and hurriedly attempted to conclude the call.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, Geoffrey,’ I stammered. ‘Can I call you back in ten minutes? Something’s come up.’ I replaced the handset and resisted the urge to shake the woman. It was my first Monday at Gebar and I’d been in my outback office for just under eight hours. Already I was working twice as hard to keep up appearances with my city-based colleagues.

  I stood up from behind my desk to greet my unexpected visitor.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, my hand outstretched.

  ‘No need for that, luv,’ said the stranger dismissively. ‘Bit too formal for round’ ere. I’m Margot Schmidt.’ She announced her name with authority. ‘Stu’s probably told you all about me and Fred and the boys, Hans and David.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I stalled, entirely unacquainted with Margot and her extended family.

  ‘You talkin’ to Sydney then?’ she asked, nodding towards the telephone.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘a work call.’ Margot studied me with interest.

  ‘Yeah, Becky said you’ve got a job in Sydney. Accountant, aren’t ya? How long you gonna keep that up then?’

  My mind reeled. Who was Becky? Why was she telling people I was an accountant? And what else was I supposed to do in Jandowae, if not work?

  ‘Um, for as long as possible,’ I replied, making a mental note to ask Stuart who Becky might be.

  ‘Well,’ said Margot, squaring her shoulders and smoothing the wide collar of her blouse, ‘I can’t stay long, I’m just on my way to a sausage sizzle.’

  I cocked my head, unsure of how to respond to this announcement. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d heard the term ‘sausage sizzle’ used in polite conversation.

  ‘How do y’like your donger then?’ asked Margot, gazing about the office.

  ‘My … um … what?’ I asked, certain I had misheard her.

  ‘The donger,’ affirmed Margot, enunciating the word slowly. ‘Y’know, yer office. They’re called dongers.’

  ‘Oh right, the demountable,’ I faltered. ‘Yes, it’s very comfortable, thanks.’

  ‘So,’ continued Margot, rummaging in her bag, ‘I brought you these.’ She waved a box of yellow cylinders at me. Cigars? Bon-bons? Wrapping paper?

  ‘They’re drawer liners,’ she explained slowly, as though speaking to a simpleton. ‘You put them in your knickers drawer, or wherever mice are munchin’. They’re scented too. Lemon Surprise.’

  I was agog at this revelation. Would I have to contend with rodents in the house, nibbling at my underwear?

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Margot,’ I said.

  Margot waved a hand at me indifferently. ‘No worries, luv. What are you, 7-4-6?’

  I paused. Was she speculating about my hips-waist-bust measurements?

  ‘Am I … seven-four-what?’ I asked.

  ‘Your phone number, luv,’ Margot explained, losing patience. ‘Everybody round here starts with 4-6-6-8-5. People know each other by their last three digits.’

  I stared at Margot, flummoxed.

  ‘Well, anyway, if you need me, I’m on 0-1-4. Seeeeya!’ she shouted cheerily.

  And then she was gone.

  I sat in my office, staring dumbly at the sliding door. I slumped onto my elbows and rested my forehead in my hands. Is this culture shock? I was well-acquainted with its sense of disorientation, having experienced it during my year in Indonesia. After the adrenalin-induced excitement had subsided, the reality of what the hell I had done began to sink in.

  ‘Yes, culture shock,’ I muttered.

  I had to pull myself together.

  I picked up the handset and dialled my office number in Sydney.

  ‘Geoffrey,’ I said, ‘Sorry about that …’

  Somehow I managed to hold the virtual office together for the remainder of my first week in the Danube. By Friday, however, the time difference between Sydney and rural Queensland – a mere one hour in summer – had started to feel like 25 years. It was as though time had slowed down, every passing hour indistinguishable from the last. My day was no longer dominated by regimented meeting schedules. Instead, time was punctuated only by the sun’s arc across the sky, the rhythmic buffeting of the wind against my office, and the incessant call of crows circling aloft.

  Late on Friday afternoon, I looked up from my desk at the sound of an engine drawing closer. Are the F-111s back? The noise swelled to a throaty crescendo as a large John Deere tractor chugged within a metre of the Danube. A young man – Stu’s offsider, Roger – peered through my office window and hailed me with a cheesy grin. He gave me the thumbs up signal and continued on his way. As I watched him steer the tractor towards the shed, I couldn’t help but recall the view from my office window in Sydney. Glamorous women running for taxis in their Jimmy Choos, Japanese tourists overloaded with duty-free booty, ferries and recreational craft bobbing up and down on the harbour.

  I shut down my computer for the week and automatically locked my filing cabinet. Against the potential intrusions of whom – or what – I didn’t really know. I switched on the answering machine and tidied the papers on my desk by rote. No Friday night drinks at a chic little bar for me tonight. As I headed to the house, I glanced back towards the Bunya Mountains, hazy purple in the light of the setting sun.

  A gentle breeze rippled through the fields of ivory cotton flowers. The moon was rising; an evening star poked its tiny light through the fabric of the deepening sky. The challenges of my working week fell away, like bark peeling from a she-oak’s trunk. The residual concerns of my Sydney life subsided. Nothing moved in that hallowed space and nor did I, until the distant headlights of Stuart’s ute cast their light along the driveway.

  Once I’d survived my first week at Gebar, it was time to spread my wings beyond the property. I awoke early on Saturday morning, ready to embark on a reconnaissance mission to Jandowae, population 750, eleven kilometres to the north. Maybe I’d even grab a coffee and something sticky from the bakery; this was a weekend treat guaranteed to perk me up. Despite the tender warmth of my reunion with Stu, the past seven days – replete with amputee frogs, snakes in the house and surprise visits from neighbours – had been intensely foreign. I craved something familiar, like my regular Saturday morning coffee at my local café in Sydney. Surely I could replicate tha
t experience in Jandowae? I pulled on a pair of jeans and dabbed on some lipstick before setting off for the shed to collect my car. My two-door Festiva had arrived on a semi-trailer from Sydney the day before. I crossed paths with Stu, returning to the house for morning tea.

  ‘You look nice,’ he said. ‘But no-one really gets dressed up in town, you know.’

  I glanced down at my jeans in bemusement. ‘Surely this isn’t too dressed up?’

  Stuart appraised me from head to foot. ‘Well, it’s nicer than most,’ he replied. ‘King Gees and Blundstones are the uniform in Janders.’ He motioned towards the shed.

  ‘Why don’t you take my ute?’ he offered.

  ‘Why should I?’ I replied, puzzled.

  ‘Because you’ll stick out like dogs’ balls in that thing,’ he said, waving towards the Festiva. ‘It’s got “city chick” written all over it.’

  Granted, I hadn’t seen many Ford Festivas among the enormous farm utilities in the area. But they can take me as I come.

  Using Stuart’s hand-drawn map, I made it to the town centre. I parked outside a newsagency and, squaring my hat, set out along the main street. I’d googled the township of Jandowae before my move to Queensland and discovered that it was settled in the 1860s. Now as I wandered through the town centre, a number of historic buildings pointed to its early heritage; a bank built in 1913, a post office opened in 1924, a Memorial Hall constructed the following year (and now inexplicably painted a hot fuchsia pink).

  I took in several other points of interest, including Athlone Cottage (feted as one of the earliest slab huts in the district), the Community and Cultural Centre (housing a small library and information centre), a mural depicting the Dingo Barrier Fence (apparently located somewhere nearby), a plaque marking the burial of a time capsule in 2003 (only 98 years to go) and a small timber mill situated on the incongruously named ‘Sydney Street’. A community notice board revealed that Jandowae had recently acquired the status of ‘Tidiest Town’ on the Darling Downs. Meanwhile, the latest achievement of the Jandowae State School had been its winning entry in the State Rock Eisteddfod: ‘Music, Milk and Moo Cows’.

  Strolling between these local fixtures, I was disconcerted by the apparent absence of human life. It was clear that on this particular Saturday morning, I could fire a gun in the main street and not hit anyone. The sheer emptiness of Jandowae was both liberating and unsettling. Why had I worried about parking my car at a precise 45-degree angle to the kerb? Evidently I could park my vehicle anywhere, anytime, at any angle I chose, without fear of the parking police. After roughly fifteen minutes of exploring the main thoroughfare and its surrounds, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself. I’d traversed most of Jandowae, as far as I could tell.

  I know – I’ll buy a newspaper. I walked back to the news-agency, removed my hat and stepped inside.

  I nodded at the shopkeepers standing behind the counter.

  ‘Hello,’ said the woman, an expectant look on her face.

  ‘Hi,’ I replied, my smile guarded. ‘Do you have a copy of The Australian?’ I scanned the newspaper stand, which hosted a pile of copies of Queensland Country Life, several editions of The Toowoomba Chronicle and a dilapidated A4 folio entitled Jandowae News.

  ‘Sold out,’ grunted the man. ‘We only stock three copies. Steve Johnson took the last one, ’bout ten minutes ago.’

  Was I supposed to know who Steve Johnson was?

  ‘Right,’ I replied. ‘I’d better buy a chocolate then.’

  I opened a nearby refrigerator and selected Stu’s favourite, a chocolate-covered Turkish Delight. I placed it on the counter and asked, ‘How much?’

  ‘Why don’t you just put it on the account?’ the woman replied.

  ‘But I don’t have an account,’ I said.

  The woman smiled knowingly. ‘No, but Stuart does. Take advantage of it.’ I paused, startled. The woman evidently knew exactly who I was.

  For all its relaxed pace, Jandowae clearly boasted a strong tradition of rural surveillance.

  ‘Oh, right,’ I replied. ‘Well, I guess so. Um, I’m Fiona Collins,’ I said, stretching out my hand.

  The woman grasped my hand and returned my smile. ‘I’m Jan and this is Bill. You’re up from Sydney, aren’t you? Becky told us you’d arrived last week. Said you were an accountant. How do you like Jandowae, then?’ I wondered again who on earth Becky might be.

  ‘Well, this is the first time I’ve been into town,’ I said. ‘So I’m just finding my feet … And, um, I’m not an accountant.’ I paused, contemplating how to explain the nature of my professional life without commencing a convoluted discussion.

  ‘Well,’ said Jan, chuckling, ‘the bush telegraph isn’t always right.’

  I smiled at her infectious giggle.

  ‘Is there a bakery nearby, Jan?’ I asked, changing the subject.

  She shook her head as Bill chimed in, ‘Nope, but you can get some bread up on the corner there.’ I gazed out the shop window in the direction of Bill’s wave. In the distance, I could detect a black-and-white sign marked ‘Café’. I hadn’t seen it on my earlier stroll, obscured as it was by an enormous tractor parked on the street. Promising.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Nice to meet you. I’ll see you around, no doubt.’ Bill and Jan waved in unison and I continued on my way.

  At the café, I pushed open the door and was greeted by a young man with bright blue eyes, who closely resembled a cowboy.

  ‘Hi,’ he said with overt interest. ‘What are you after?’

  I inspected the offerings on display: an assortment of meat pies, a battered savoy sausage and a bucket of hot chips.

  ‘A coffee,’ I said. ‘A latte. Do you stock soy milk?’ The cowboy tilted his head to one side, as if I’d spoken French. Parlez-vous anglais?

  ‘We’ve got instant coffee,’ he drawled. He seized a styrofoam cup and began spooning in the desiccated grains. ‘Milk and sugar?’ he asked.

  ‘Um, no. I think I’ll have a mineral water instead,’ I said, scanning the refrigerator.

  As I removed a can from the top shelf, Cowboy commented, ‘S’pose it’s hotter here than down south?’ I froze. So, he knows all about me, too. I decided to take the bull by the proverbial horns.

  ‘Yes,’ I responded. ‘Who’s Becky?’ Cowboy appeared confused by the abrupt shift in conversation.

  ‘Becky …’ he repeated, trawling the recesses of his memory. ‘Yeah … I know,’ he announced triumphantly, ‘Becky is Joanie’s cousin.’

  I stared at Cowboy for a moment. Who the hell is Joanie?

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ I said, backing towards the door. ‘See you later.’

  I returned to Gebar and told Stu the ‘Six Degrees of Becky’ tale.

  ‘Becky, cousin of Joanie …’ said Stu, considering the matter. ‘You know, I think it all comes back to Rhonda. Joanie is Rhonda’s neighbour.’

  I gazed heavenward and barked impatiently, ‘And who’s Rhonda?’

  Stu threw an arm around my shoulders and said, ‘Rhonda’s your new best friend, Fi. She’s our cleaning lady. You’ll meet her soon enough. She usually comes with her husband, Carl. She’s been quizzing me about you for weeks. I haven’t told her much, but she’s obviously had a chat to Becky, who’s spoken to everyone in town about you.’

  A cleaning lady? Fantastic. A potential comrade in the war against dust and creepy-crawlies.

  ‘Well,’ I said, mollified, ‘if Rhonda can get the frogs out of the toilet, I’ll tell her everything she wants to know.’

  Later that evening, in an effort to compensate for the lack of soy lattes in the district, Stuart suggested we dine at a local pub.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, squeezing my hand, ‘it’ll be like our first rural date.’ Having been distinctly overdressed during my earlier reconnaissance mission, I resolved to adopt a ‘when in Rome’ policy. I donned a red gingham shirt (a going-away gift from Genevieve, which I’d sworn I’d never wear), some faded cargo pants, and a p
air of Blundstones. There were three public bars in Jandowae, all of which sported official and unofficial names: The Jandowae Hotel, aka The Bottom Pub; the Exchange Hotel, aka The Middle Pub; and the Club Hotel, aka The Pink Pub.

  ‘We’re going to The Middle Pub,’ said Stu, ‘It’s not quite as rough as the others.’

  Despite the fact that Stu was with me, the impact of my entrance at The Middle Pub was like a scene from a Hollywood Western. The stranger enters the saloon, the music stops, people turn and stare, and the bartender barks, ‘Whaddya want?’ My answer – ‘A Lemon, Lime and Bitters, thank you’ – just didn’t cut it. Asking about vegetarian counter meals didn’t help my cause either. Even though I was dressed in rural drag, I was clearly a stranger.

  ‘You up from Sydney then?’ asked a friendly waitress as she slapped down our orders – a 700-gram T-bone steak for Stu, a salad for me.

  ‘Yes,’ I confessed, beaten. ‘It’s my first week.’ The waitress reached out and patted my hand.

  ‘You’ll get used to it, luv,’ she said. ‘I moved out from Ipswich nine years ago and I’m still not considered a local.’

  CHAPTER 10

  The days rolled into weeks and, just as the waitress promised, I became increasingly acquainted with How Things Are Done Around Here. Late one Saturday morning, I realised that it would soon be Genevieve’s birthday and I hadn’t yet sent her a card.

  ‘I have to go into town,’ I announced to Stu. ‘I haven’t missed Gen’s birthday in ten years.’ Stu looked up from the farm journal he was reading.

  ‘Great,’ he replied. ‘Get me a Turkish Delight, will you? And a pack of D-cell batteries from the hardware store?’

  As I pulled into the parking area outside the hardware store, I left the keys in the ignition and my iPod on the front seat – a mere month in Jandowae had taught me that no-one would be stealing anything from my car. And if they did, at least Becky would know the culprit.

  I pushed the door open. The bell on the back of the door jangled in the silence.