Outside, the world we built is soon dismantled. The hire companies come and take the machinery and the chain-link fence and the scaffolding away, and the buildings are exposed. The barn a stark blue box, the toy train station nothing but a false front: a single, flimsy wall with its painted clock. The wheel remains in the centre, bold and bright and motorless, like the spine of a prototype animal rejected by God in development, like the bones of a house after fire.
We watch this happen through the windows of the village. A construction in reverse.
We did not go far. It seemed to us the most logical thing was to move in the direction we had already chosen. Not all of us. Many simply kept moving. Some left in daylight, driving slowly up Kurrajong Street, waving and honking their horns, like they were off to a wedding. Others went at night, saying nothing. The Ellisons moved in here and then disappeared, leaving all their stuff behind. We went through their belongings and redistributed them, pleased with our toasters and glassware and books. It is only fair, when there is a need. It is not as if anyone has died, we say, and catch ourselves saying it, and our smiles are grim.
We try to make ourselves at home, to improvise. We’d like new blinds; the treeless yards of the village feel exposed, and the outside air has a lingering scent. But we’re hesitant to make big purchases. We don’t know what’s in store for us yet. It’s wise to take things one day at a time.
After a few weeks the smell has mostly gone, or we’ve gotten used to it. We are settling in, adapting well. We raid our old houses, take taps and basins from old kitchens and fit them to the new. We make lists of things we want: curtains, kitchen furniture, a floating floor. We don’t leave the units much, in case someone comes (who would come here, after this?), but we make it fun. If we go out, we go down to the Commie. Carl keeps the place open most days, but the bar feels empty, and we find we prefer to buy takeaway bottles and bring them back here to sit in our courtyard, under the dome. You can’t be too sure of the air.
We let the sea wash out. Let it have what it has taken. The water’s retreat has shortened our horizon. We focus on the near things: interiors, housekeeping. We work at a manageable scale. We hang flags and blankets to screen out the glare, the dust, and we make our places nice, in tentative ways. We think it’s temporary, even when we say it’s feeling more and more like home.
Most of us don’t go down to the park. It’s better not to think about what’s left behind. Only Roger goes there most days to take his photographs.
‘It’s got something,’ he says. He doesn’t say what.
One day, we follow him into the ragged field. Weeds are sprouting in the shadows. The gate looks lonely now, standing there without a fence keeping it company. We see Jill walking across the other side of the field, carrying a bag into the barn, and we call out to her.
‘All right?’ she asks.
‘We thought you’d gone with your mum and dad,’ we call, and walk closer.
‘Nup.’ She smiles, hefts her bag. ‘Work to do.’
‘That’s great,’ we say. We look expectant. We know the kids are taking from the old houses too. Furniture, wiring. The bag is full of something, but it isn’t obvious what. Jill sees us looking.
‘Got to get ready for tourist season,’ she says.
Our feet shuffle closer together. Perhaps she is joking. ‘And how is Sam?’
She shakes her head. ‘Sam’s not with us.’ Her eyes are bulging, but she’s only seventeen, it’s not unusual.
‘Not with you.’ It could mean a number of things. We have a sense there’s something we’re supposed to take care of, somewhere we’re supposed to be. But we’ve all had this feeling on and off for years, since we stopped working.
‘She isn’t talking yet,’ she says, slow and clear.
‘I see,’ says Trent. We aren’t sure what to make of that. Not talking at all, or just about this?
‘Tourist season,’ says Jean. ‘What do you mean, tourist season?’
‘It’s just an idea,’ Jill says, and sighs. ‘Look. Don’t worry about it. We’re taking care of it.’ She turns towards the barn with her load.
We watch her go. A breeze weaves around our legs like a dog’s ghost, makes our clothes flap sadly.
‘Good luck,’ Roger says, watching Jill’s broad strides. She doesn’t turn. ‘Luck!’ he calls out again. He has hold of the word like a stick. We can’t seem to think past it. We have stayed outside too long today. Our thoughts are foggy. If Jill has heard, she doesn’t answer.
‘It’s not a bad idea,’ Roger says.
‘This,’ says Curdie, gesturing. ‘Really?’
‘You’d be surprised. People like this kind of thing.’ Roger kicks half the gate with one foot to make his point and it falls into the newly sprouting grass.
‘There you go,’ says Jean.
The headcount at the bar doesn’t take as long these days. The list of who has gone, counted on bent fingers at the checkout in the Foodtown, grows longer than the list of those who stay. Within weeks, we find we have begun to forget their names, the ones who’ve left us; we’ve stopped wondering where and how, and started to accept their absences as facts, to expand our lives into the space made available. It’s like when someone dies. You have to go on living.
We have quite a bit of room to live, now. We emerge into our common courtyard, stand around under the dome and peer at the enormous barbecue. We count heads. We often have a sense that we should all be present, as if someone’s going to come and check. But who would come? No-one does.
Annette is the last to go. She takes Andrew and the station wagon, leaves Curdie the ute. We are childless couples now, empty nesters. A few singles. Fiona’s still got Quayde, a sweet boy, although he’s never going to be independent. We come down to an even dozen. There is plenty of room. Enough space for everybody, and visitors too, if anyone comes. Roger maintains that they will, any day now. We don’t believe it.
The first carload arrives on a Sunday. They drive up in a station wagon with a blanket rucked up against the back window. We’d get backpackers now and then in the old days, grubby youths on camping trips, usually lost; they’d stop for directions, maybe a beer and chips sitting at the Commie’s outside tables, then head back to Hummock and the main road west, off into the romantic discomfort of the desert. We have heard this desert is coming to us, metre by metre, year by year. So there’s not much point in going there ourselves.
We watch this group out our windows. We would peer through our blinds, if we had blinds, but we still don’t; some of us peer through bedsheets, others through blankets or Australian flags. The adjustable tinting in the glaze offers some protection, but it’s not enough. We watch the station wagon pause at the gate of the park. Half the gate, really, since no-one’s picked up the half that fell.
‘We should fix that,’ Curdie says.
‘Go ahead,’ says Jean. He’s been looking for something to do.
‘What do you think they want?’ asks Allan.
Roger shushes him. The makeshift curtains ripple. It’s like we’re on safari.
‘I’d better go down to the shop,’ says Trent, and grabs his keys.
The backpackers get out, their sunburnt legs shining, and after looking at the wheel for a few seconds they turn so that they are facing away from it. They reach out with their phones in their hands and raise them, lower them, raise them. They position themselves, arms around each other, the still wheel behind them. It’s only when they pass their phones around afterwards that we realise they’re taking selfies.
They get back into their car and drive twenty metres to the Foodtown. We watch Trent come out to point up the hill to the village. We duck behind our curtains, but when we see the station wagon coming up the road we go out and stand in a driveway and wait for them.
There are two women, almost identical – chubby and pink and singleted – and two men, almost opposites – one tall and black, the other short and fair with a red beard.
‘Where are you headed?’ we ask them.
They look puzzled. ‘Here,’ the tall one says. He raises his arms to embrace the air, and lets them fall. A whiff of his young-man sweat flickers at our memories. The short one just looks at his phone.
We don’t know what else to ask. The tall one lifts his camera up, seeking permission, and when we nod he starts taking pictures of our makeshift curtains. He takes pictures of the distant hills. He takes pictures of his friends subtly posing while talking to us, the unfinished park in the background.
‘Nice camera,’ says Roger.
‘Thanks, man,’ he answers, with a sad little smile.
‘You’re down here on holidays?’ asks Jean. She does not sound too incredulous.
The picture-taker ignores this until he has finished collecting. Then he scrolls back through his photos on the camera’s screen. When he has satisfied some internal checklist, he looks up and crinkles his brow at us. His lips are moving.
‘Is this everyone?’ he asks.
We have counted heads already, and know we are eleven, but we count again. ‘All but one. Trent at the shop, whom you met.’ Jean has somehow wound up as our spokesperson. It’s an easy transition from the pub. ‘Oh, and the kids,’ she says.
‘Insane,’ he says, cheerful. There is a pause, during which we all beam at each other. One of the women looks off towards the hills, shading her eyes with a hand.
‘A real live ghost town,’ she says, to nobody in particular.
There’s more beaming back and forth.
‘How much do you think is reasonable?’ Jean says.
This is what happens next. This is what we are going to do.
‘Hey?’ The woman squints at us, all hint of a smile now lost.
‘How much do you think you could pay?’
‘We’re, um, we’re travelling, we need money for food and petrol and stuff,’ says the other one. She sounds like a Brit. ‘I didn’t think there was another charge.’
‘Twenty dollars all right?’ asks Curdie. His voice is tuckshop-kind, his fingers busy.
‘Each,’ says Jean, with more authority. ‘Of course there’s a charge. Let’s all be realistic.’
They empty their pockets, pulling out coins and cigarette papers and seashells, the detritus of travel. There is a mildly resentful huddle. They find a twenty, a couple of origami fives, more coins, half a roll of breath mints. We hear them muttering about who bought lunch, and who brought ganja. The other girl, the non-Brit, approaches Jean with her two hands full and counts the cash out carefully.
‘Sorry for the change,’ she says.
‘Enjoy your visit,’ says Jean. ‘Tell your friends.’
They pile into the car, a little miffed. We wave happily as they drive off. The faces of the two men stare out the back window above their blanket like the doleful faces of hounds kept too long indoors. This feeling we have could be excitement, or fear, or just indigestion.
‘How strange,’ says Jean. She stares at the bills in her hand as if they’re petals fallen there in some delightful breeze.
‘See,’ says Roger. ‘The place has got something. It’s worth something.’