The Last Dingo Summer

by Jackie French

  And on the bed Sam breathed in and breathed out.

  I remember the first time we swam together, thought Jed, and the moonlight shone on the droplets of water on your beard. I remember waking, the night after Mattie was born, and you were sprawled in the armchair fast asleep and smelling of bushfire, but you were still holding her perfectly, your big hands supporting her small head.

  I remember the way you always spread butter right to the edges of the toast, and when you slice cheese, each piece is as identical as if you’d measured it. I mentioned that to you one day and you just said, ‘Of course,’ as if it’s natural for everything in the world to be exactly engineered.

  And Sam breathed in and out.

  At last the talk was finished. The nurses left first, back to work. Alannah took the trolley out. Jed hauled Mattie from under the bed, where she had been bashing her pegs into her block with the small red wooden hammer. Jed looked at Sam and then at Blue. ‘Would you mind taking Mattie home? I . . . I’d like to stay a little longer.’

  Blue nodded wordlessly. She held her arms out to her granddaughter as Mattie discovered an interesting piece of icing stuck in her hair behind her ear. Hugs, kisses, a few more rounds of ‘Happy birthday, Mattie!’ and a last wipe of drool and icing, and they were all gone, the sounds of the tricycle wheels growing fainter and Mattie’s cries of ‘Hi!’ to any patient in the corridor.

  Suddenly the hospital was quiet, the only noises the click of crockery from the tearoom and subdued voices from the nurses’ station.

  Jed sat in her usual chair. It felt odd to sit here with arms empty. But of course she wasn’t here alone. She leaned over and took his cold hand in hers.

  ‘It was a good party,’ she told Sam softly. ‘I don’t know how much you heard. I don’t know if you heard anything. But Mattie loved it. Your mum did too.’

  She kissed him then, as she had not with others in the room, and for longer than she did with Mattie to hold. His lips were cool, but despite the room’s scent of floor polish and disinfectant, he still smelled exactly of himself. Finally she sat and simply looked at him for a while, still holding his hand. Darling Sam. Her husband.

  ‘A lot’s happened lately,’ she said at last. ‘I’m free. I don’t just mean I’m free of Merv. Debbie wrote me a letter, apologising. It shouldn’t make a difference, but it does. But it’s more than that. I’ve realised today that I’d been free of them for a long time, not just Merv and Debbie, but my parents too and all those horror years, and all because of you.

  ‘You loved me. Just plain loved me. You loved being with me. I became a writer because you gave me the confidence to show who I am and what I feel to the world. You and I made Mattie together, made Dribble the home where I want to spend my life, no matter what happens next.’

  She watched him, breathing in, breathing out.

  ‘There will be a “next”, of course,’ she said quietly. ‘I can accept that now. Lives change. Mine will too. And I know that . . . that yours probably won’t. I suppose it says a lot about Gibber’s Creek that not one person has ever suggested unhooking you from those tubes. I bet they never will. Even lying here, Sam McAlpine, you matter to so many people. You always will.’

  Sam McAlpine breathed. A breath in, another out.

  ‘You will always be my husband, Sam McAlpine, whatever happens next,’ said Jed. ‘I am who I am, and who I will be, because of you.’

  She stopped. There was more to say, but she didn’t have the words. She, who had just written draft number five of 140,000 words, did not have the ones to describe what she felt now.

  But there would be other times. I know your name now. It’s Darling.

  She stood, replaced his hand on the sheet, then stroked his face. She bent and kissed his lips, slowly again, and then kissed his cold forehead. ‘Sleep well, Sam love. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll bring Mattie in too, and the latest edition of The Ecologist. I renewed the subscription for you. Though Mattie doesn’t enjoy it like she did when you read it to her, so I’ll bring one of her books as well.’

  She paused again, trying to find what it was she couldn’t say. But how could you fit two people, a family, a community and so much love into words? It would take a book. Many books, perhaps.

  ‘Sleep well,’ she repeated. She turned and walked from the room, the 1950s skirt rustling so that she didn’t hear, didn’t see, the faintest move of Sam’s fingers towards her, a breath that almost became a word. Darling.

  NANCY

  The moon had set, leaving the room dark when Nancy woke, shivering. She looked at the new-fangled digital clock Scarlett had given her for Christmas. Four-ten am, irrevocably flicking seconds of no sleep. Would she fall asleep again? Could not face sleep again . . .

  She turned and found Michael looking at her.

  They didn’t speak. He looked and she looked, and suddenly she was crying, wrapped in his arms. And there, at last, the past began to seep away.

  She had sobbed for about ten minutes when he said, ‘Nancy . . .’

  She looked up, took the tissue he was holding out, blew her nose. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t shut me out.’ He squeezed her again when she started to speak. ‘No, please listen. I never asked back then, when you came home. Everyone said to let you forget it all, put it behind you, concentrate on being home again. Let Gran take you out bush and let the rest fade. But it hasn’t faded, has it?’

  ‘No,’ she admitted shakily, blowing her nose again. ‘It does for a while, then it comes back.’

  ‘I’d like to know.’

  ‘No!’ Her voice was so loud she was afraid she’d wake the boys. She carefully lowered it. ‘I can’t take you through all that. It was too . . .’ What were the words? Tragic? Traumatic? Bizarrely veering from what should be normal life? ‘Too bad,’ she compromised. ‘You shouldn’t have to see it too.’

  She could feel his smile in the darkness. ‘Darling, I won’t go through it. Don’t you understand? It’s far away. It’s gone. All I will hear is my wife’s voice, the voice of my wife whom I love. All I will feel is sorrow and, yes, maybe some horror at what you went through. But I know how bad it was already. I’ve heard you cry out in your sleep for over thirty years. There is nothing, absolutely nothing you can say that will hurt me as much as hearing you scream and knowing I’m locked out.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. She lay there, his arms around her, silent, absorbing the thought.

  ‘We’ll be okay,’ said Michael, and suddenly she realised he was talking about Overflow. ‘You remember what you told me before the 60s drought? You said it was nature’s way of making the land tougher. Tough trees. Tough animals. Tough humans too.’ He kissed her hair. ‘That’s us.’

  And it was true. Why ever had she doubted she wouldn’t just cope with another drought, but feel joy and fulfilment too? She had her family, her friends, her community, her land. Immeasurable riches, drought or not.

  And she had a damn fine husband too. She leaned into his kiss. His arms tightened around her . . .

  ‘Cup of tea?’ asked Michael at last.

  She glanced at the clock again. Five am. They’d need to get up in an hour anyway, to get the boys ready for the school bus at seven. ‘Yes, please.’

  Talking would have to wait. But she would talk, by the pool in the creek this morning maybe, and at other times too. Whenever memories of Malaya stalked her, she would turn to her dearest, closest friend, her husband. And suddenly she knew there would be no more sleepwalking. Not with Michael by her side.

  ‘You go and shower,’ said Michael, kissing her forehead. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He kissed her again. She got up slowly, gathered the clothes she had left ready on the chair and walked down the corridor to the bathroom. She paused, then opened Tom’s door. He lay on his back, tidy, focused even in sleep. She shut the door quietly and opened Clancy’s. He lay sprawled in a smaller version of Michael, his beloved camera at the end of his bed, as if he
had relinquished it only to sleep.

  Tough people. Her sons would not just survive this drought. They would be enriched by it, seeing hills that became more beautiful as their vegetation withered and they showed their shape. They would learn that happiness could be found as easily in hard times as in good; how communities and families survived together; and that hard work, deep knowledge and an ability to radically adapt when you had to meant you not just survived but thrived.

  We are the toughest of red gums, she thought, our roots winding down to bedrock, to the depths of the water table. We may drop our leaves in drought, but give us a storm and we will green again. Burn us, and we put out green shoots.

  This drought would be just part of life’s adventure for her boys, secure in the love of family and friends. Clancy would photograph the golden light sweeping through brown tussocks and Tom would make weather graphs, the boys’ happiness undimmed. Tom and Clancy of the Overflow.

  Nancy realised she was smiling.

  FISH

  The Dragon bumped across the paddocks. Fish tucked the Tupperware containers full of orange cake (CWA prize-winning recipe) behind her seat, along with the zucchini gingerbread still warm from the commune’s outdoor oven, cheese and pickle sandwiches, mutton and tomato sandwiches, curried egg sandwiches and the always-important Thermos of tea.

  She looked back to wave at the crowd gathered in the paddock. The Greats, and Wes and Broccoli Bill and Nan, and Nancy and Michael and their boys, and Jed and Mattie, her chubby hand waving too, Scarlett standing with William Ryan, not even needing a wheelchair next to her today, and Carol and Leafsong and Mark . . .

  So many people to wave to. And then the Dragon bounced twice and was airborne, soaring up, and Gibber’s Creek was below her. Gran flew them over Dribble, its solar panels dark on the tin roof; over Moura, nestled in its valley; and across Drinkwater, stately among imported elms and oaks.

  There was the commune and her mural, large enough to see even from the air, finished now, the missing found again for everyone to see.

  The Dragon soared higher. Fish watched the river twining between its fire-stained gum trees, the sheep, the barbed-wire fences . . .

  The billabong gleamed silver. An animal moved under the trees. No, two animals, lean and golden furred, not quite like dogs at all, padding beside the water together.

  And then the town.

  A good place. A community built on the hard work and lessons of the dead, lying in their quiet soil, as now the living in their turn created a future for those who would come after. A district with secrets, because humans always did have secrets. Some memories needed to be acknowledged, but not eternally relived.

  And she’d be back, she thought as the Dragon headed up into the castle of clouds that would lead them north. She’d listen again as people put the billy on, in this place of endless tea and cake, this land where stories lived.

  Author’s Note

  The Matilda Saga began as a single book, with no intention to make it a series that will continue possibly as long as I am able to write it. But as it has progressed closer to the present day, its similarities to my own life and community have become more obvious.

  The fiction in these books is inspired by real life, including the histories and stories of my ancestors, but apart from the brief and obvious references to real people, these books are still fiction.

  They are also based in the past, and so the terms used in them are the ones used in the time they are set, including the references to Indigenous Australians, refugees, even Scarlett’s and Sam’s medical conditions or the way the police force operated in 1979, when men like William Ryan’s ‘Dad’s friends in the force’ would have been able to wield far more power than today to protect one of their own. Writing about the world of 1978 and 1979 does not mean that I condone everything I write about. If you feel indignant about something in the text, it is possible that I deliberately described it in a way that would make you indignant.

  It is easier to make your own views obvious in time-slip books, where a modern protagonist can give their own commentary, or where the protagonist is looking back at what happened in their past. Part of the reason for writing this series is to trace the way our nation has changed. Mostly though, of course, the Matilda series has always been a love song to a people and their land.

  Acknowledgements

  To:

  Lisa, who is not quite Julieanne;

  Jack and Tom, who are not Tom and Clancy, but are carried deep within my heart;

  Aila, who is not Mattie, but learned to say ‘hi’ at the same time;

  Bryan, who appeared as himself in an early book in this series and will in another;

  Gemma, who fixes problems brilliantly and in point seven of a second;

  the much loved old Tallaganda Times, which was pretty much the Gibber’s Creek Gazette;

  Angela, Jenny and Natalie, who ran a café that was not quite the Blue Belle;

  all in the Araluen Valley, Braidwood, and the Southern Tablelands, which is not quite Gibber’s Creek;

  and all who have shared their stories, which are not quite the ones in this book, for so many deeply happy years.

  Also by Jackie French

  The Matilda Saga

  1. A Waltz for Matilda

  2. The Girl from Snowy River

  3. The Road to Gundagai

  4. To Love a Sunburnt Country

  5. The Ghost by the Billabong

  6. If Blood Should Stain the Wattle

  7. Facing the Flame

  About the Author

  JACKIE FRENCH AM is an award-winning writer, wombat negotiator, the 2014–2015 Australian Children’s Laureate and the 2015 Senior Australian of the Year. In 2016 Jackie became a Member of the Order of Australia for her contribution to children’s literature and her advocacy for youth literacy. She is regarded as one of Australia’s most popular authors and writes across all genres — from picture books, history, fantasy, ecology and sci-fi to her much loved historical fiction for a variety of age groups. ‘Share a Story’ was the primary philosophy behind Jackie’s two-year term as Laureate.

  jackiefrench.com

  facebook.com/authorjackiefrench

  Copyright

  Angus&Robertson

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers, Australia

  First published in Australia in 2018

  by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited

  ABN 36 009 913 517

  harpercollins.com.au

  Copyright © Jackie French and E French 2018

  The right of Jackie French to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street, Sydney NSW 2000, Australia

  Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand

  A 75, Sector 57, Noida, Uttar Pradesh 201 301, India

  1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF, United Kingdom

  Bay Adelaide Centre, East Tower, 22 Adelaide Street West, 41st Floor, Toronto, Ontario M5H 4E3, Canada

  195 Broadway, New York NY 10007, USA

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of Australia

  ISBN 978 1 4607 5321 7 (paperback)

  ISBN 978 1 4607 0784 5 (ebook)

  Cover design by Alissa Dinallo

  Cover image by Mandy Erskine / Arcangel

 

 

 
ilter: grayscale(100%); -moz-filter: grayscale(100%); -o-filter: grayscale(100%); -ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share