Ric stood on the porch and watched Nina’s ute take off out the gate, wheels spinning on gravel. She hadn’t believed him, not completely. She’d needed reassurance, convincing. It shouldn’t be like that. There should be complete trust between them. Ric stretched to ease his sore muscles. They were wound tight, jumping beneath his skin, coiled in readiness for . . . for what? He didn’t want to argue with Nina’s dad, although it sounded like that’s what Jim was spoiling for. He didn’t want to argue with his own father either, although it sounded like Max deserved it. That’s if his dad had rigged the wheels. Nina was so certain of it. But what if it was Lockie who’d rigged them, to cast blame onto Max and onto him too? Why hadn’t Nina doubted Lockie’s story, the way she’d doubted his?
And what had Lockie been doing there at Nina’s? After last night . . . He pushed the thought away.
Hell, Dad might have done it. Not much chance of getting caught. There was one water bailiff for the whole region – old Sam Higgins – and he’d been around since Ric was a boy. One bailiff, who had to process licence applications and keep the records, on top of everything else. Sam was overworked, underpaid and browned off. He hadn’t been seen down this end of the river for months. Sharp-eyed neighbours were far more likely to track down water thieves, and were liable to hand down rough justice too, long before old Sam got around to investigating their complaints.
Knowing Dad, he may have legitimately bought up water licences for miles around and still been greedy for more. Cotton growing at Donnalee was a constant battle, an endless struggle against the elements. Nina’s concept of a farm working in harmony with the river’s fragile ecology would seem naïve and strange to his father. For Max, farming was a contest. Each season saw a victor – either nature won, or he did. And his dream to drought-proof the farm, to dominate the river, was a long-held and passionate one. But to steal water in a drought? Ric didn’t want to believe it.
These past months, connecting with Max – they’d been more special than he cared to admit. For sixteen years he’d built a wall around his heart, convinced himself that he didn’t miss his father and never would. He’d edited his childhood memories, recalling the harshness and hostilities, disregarding the love and happy family times. But that was changing. Ric was grown now, a man with a child of his own, a man with insight and understanding. The big-picture lens of adulthood had panned back to reveal Max in all his colours, not just black and white. It showed him as a proud parent, a tender grandfather, a man of rich humour and uncommon resourcefulness. In his blunt, hardworking way, Dad had taught Ric a lot, had tried his best to make a man out of him. And after all these years, Ric finally appreciated that and was thankful for this second chance. Mum had told him stories about his father growing up without an education, suffering at the hands of his stepfather, risking himself to protect his sisters. Everybody was a prisoner of their past, he knew that now. Max was no more flawed than he was himself.
The hum of a motor summoned him back. Normally he wouldn’t have taken much notice of the quad bike, going west down the laneway towards the dams. But a quick glance revealed that Dad’s truck wasn’t back and there were no other workers around on a Sunday. Who the hell was it? Ric headed for the car, swinging through the gate towards the river and into the main laneway. There, up ahead. He could see the bike and make out the driver too. Jesus, it was Sophie, taking her goslings for a ride. She was heading towards the storage, raising a plume of dust, her long plaits blowing in the breeze. The young geese crowded around her, some with wings outstretched like they were flying.
He beeped the horn and Sophie slowed to a stop. She turned around as he got out of the car, wearing her defiant face. ‘You never said I couldn’t ride the bike.’
‘You’re nine years old. I didn’t think I had to.’ A gosling jumped to the ground, then another. ‘What the heck does a kid like you know about bikes?’
‘I’ve watched you and Poppi. It’s not that hard.’
‘Kids are hurt all the time on those things,’ he said. ‘You weren’t even wearing a helmet. What would your mother say if you went and got yourself killed?’
‘She wouldn’t care. She never even rings.’ This last point, at least, was true, so he let it go. ‘Did you love my mother?’ asked Sophie.
The question caught him so off guard that he forgot about her misdemeanour with the bike. What could he say? That when he and Rachael met they’d been very young. Both a bit lost, both divided from their families, with not much in common but their loneliness. They’d held together for a while, hitchhiking round, working as fruit pickers and dairy hands. Rachael had run off with a bloke headed for the prawn trawlers up north and he’d drifted west to the Kimberley oil fields. They hadn’t seen each other since. Had he loved Rachael back then? In a way.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I loved your mother.’
‘But you don’t love her any more?’
‘Well . . . we lost touch.’
‘And now you love Nina instead of Mum.’ It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.
She’d taken him by surprise again. ‘Yeah,’ said Ric at last, feeling unaccountably guilty. ‘Maybe I do.’ He had to take back control of the conversation somehow. Who was in the wrong here anyway? ‘Poppi won’t be happy when he finds out you’ve been riding the bike.’
‘Poppi already knows,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t mind.’
‘How could Poppi know? He’s been in town all afternoon.’
‘No he hasn’t,’ she said. ‘He came back ages ago.’
‘That’s not true, Sophie. Poppi couldn’t be back. His car’s not there.’
‘It is so true,’ she said. ‘Gino dropped him home. He said Poppi had too much whisky to drive. I could smell it when he kissed me.’ She wrinkled her nose. Ric’s eyes narrowed. Her story had the ring of truth about it, but it begged the question, where was Max? ‘If you say I’m lying again,’ said Sophie, ‘I’ll run away, and never, ever come back.’
Good, he thought uncharitably. That would solve a few problems. ‘Get in the car.’
‘What about my babies?’
‘We’ll put them in the back.’ He spent the next ten minutes chasing after the young birds, without any luck, much to Sophie’s amusement.
‘How about I get in first?’ Sophie climbed into the back of the station wagon. The goslings lined up obediently at the tailgate, flapping their stubby wings. One by one he picked them up and placed them beside her.
When they reached the house, there was still no sign of Max. ‘If your grandfather came home, like you said, where is he?’
‘Poppi’s not ho-me, da-dee-da-dee-dum,’ sing-songed Sophie. She was dancing with the geese, running in circles and waving her arms. ‘He’s gone fish-ing, la-la-la-la-la . . .’
Fishing? Ric plucked the girl from among the whirling birds. ‘This is important, Sophie.’ He kept a firm grip on her arm. ‘Tell me exactly what happened.’
‘I think Poppi was drunk,’ she said. ‘He saw me riding the bike, and I thought he’d tell me to get off, but instead he kissed me and said how clever I was.’
‘And?’
‘And then Poppi went down to the river with his fishing stuff. I went with him. I tried to tell him that he shouldn’t catch fish, that fish want to be free and alive, just like us. Just like the whale in Free Willy. But he didn’t listen. So then I asked him when he’d be back, because it was his birthday and we had to have the cake, and there were going to be presents. Don’t you remember? You said you’d help me make Poppi presents?’
‘Then what?’
Sophie played with her plaits, enjoying making him wait. ‘Then Poppi said he might be back late, and he got into the punt and went off.’
‘Are you sure that’s all? You didn’t see anybody else?’
Sophie rolled her eyes, but he kept tight hold of her. ‘There was another boat,’ she said at last. ‘A bigger one, a little bit afterwards. I waved at the man but he didn’t wave back. He followed Poppi down the river.’