‘I won’t go.’ Sophie overturned her bowl with a sweep of her arm. ‘I hate you, I want Poppi.’
‘Sophie . . .’ The girl ran from the room, the geese chasing after her. He looked around the kitchen. At the dishes piled high in the sink. At the grimy benches and poo-stained linoleum floor. At the cracked cereal bowl and spilled milk. ‘Christ almighty.’
In the fortnight since Max’s disappearance, Sophie’s attitude to school had taken a turn for the worse. In fact she’d only gone for two days. Two lousy days. In a way he couldn’t blame her. Everyone knew kids could be cruel, and in this case that was an understatement. It wasn’t just that she was the new kid. The problem had always been Sophie herself. She came across as brittle and defensive, even at home. I’ll get you before you get me was her game plan. In the rough and tumble of the playground, this smart-alec attitude invited an unrelenting stream of taunts and hostility. And she was easily provoked, often into physical fights. Maybe Rachael had never disciplined the kid. Maybe Donnalee had made her run wild. Or maybe she’d simply inherited her grandfather’s short temper. Whatever the reason, it had made it tough for her at school, right from the start.
And now this. Speculation was running high in Drover’s Flat about Max’s fate, and wild rumours abounded. Rumours that Max had met with foul play. Rumours that it was payback for stealing water in the middle of this terrible drought. Rumours that renegade dry-land farmers had made an example of him to intimidate the irrigators, to drive them out.
Sophie, of course, didn’t understand any of it. All she understood was that her beloved Poppi was missing, and that kids at school were laughing about him and saying he was dead. Some had even said that he deserved it. How in hell’s name was she supposed to put up with that? When Ric was at school there’d been mates, kids on his side when things got tough. But it wasn’t like that for Sophie. She didn’t have a friend in the world at Drover’s. Only those damned geese . . . and Nina. She and Nina were a lot alike: stubborn and independent; obsessed with birds and horses. Those riding lessons had been the best thing ever for Sophie. But it was more than that. Nina had taken Sophie under her wing in all sorts of ways: helping her with homework, teaching her to sketch the wildlife on the river, getting her to open up about her life with Rachael. Encouraging her to go to school. His daughter listened to Nina. Well, he could really use her advice now. Trouble was, Nina wasn’t talking to him.
And that wasn’t his only problem. He was fast running out of money. The official search for Max had been called off. Ric still combed the river daily using a borrowed boat, but as more time passed with no sign . . . well, the possibility that Dad was dead loomed larger and larger. Ric didn’t want to think about what that meant. He could hold his grief at bay, for Sophie’s sake. But he couldn’t avoid the practical considerations any longer. What did he know about running a cotton farm? Not enough.
For the first time, Ric took an interest in the calendar on the wall. Weeks of the growing season had been crossed off progressively in red ink. The last cross was labelled week 20. He looked around, found the texta and marked off another two weeks. That brought it up to date – early autumn, week 22 of a 26-week growing season. He’d toured the farm yesterday, filling in time. The defoliant had done its job. The fields of cotton were shutting down, hunching over. Leaves already curling, mottling yellow as they ran out of nitrogen. Dotted here and there with puffs of white as early bolls burst open, weighing down the dying stems. Soon more and more would ripen and split, exposing the snowy bounty of fibre inside. Harvest was just weeks away. Dad had been so proud of this year’s crop, the best ever grown at Donnalee.
Sixteen years since Ric had experienced a harvest. How he’d dreaded that time of year. Dad working them from dawn to dusk, and always on the brink of a meltdown. The one saving grace was the dozen or so unsuspecting backpackers that made up most of their crew. There was a lot of room for error with picking – it was a complex process, and the casuals had to learn it from scratch. Many had poor English and had never worked on a farm before. They’d always borne the brunt of Dad’s temper, taking the heat off Ric and his sisters.
But this year it would be his job to get that cotton out the farm gate. Was the harvesting equipment in good order? Probably yes, knowing Dad. He’d have to find a crew somehow. How many? He couldn’t remember. A couple of picker drivers, a couple of boll-buggy operators. At least four people to rake up the cotton and put tarps on the finished modules. Then someone to slash the old plants, someone to chop up the roots. That was already ten, and it didn’t take account of sickies and pikers. Picking meant working twelve-hour days, six days a week for a month or more. Not every spoilt kid on a gap year could hack it. Did Dad still house them in tents? Was that even legal any more? At the very least, he’d need to get in some portaloos. And what about feeding people? Mum used to be the cook. She’d cook for hours, cook all day. Ric scratched his head. How the hell was he going to do this? Maybe he’d be better off getting in a harvest contractor, even if it meant leaving the picking machines idle in the shed. Dad would have a fit at the expense, but then Dad wasn’t here, was he? And it would be cheaper than losing the crop altogether through some stupid mistake. Losing the crop. The thought shook him. All that ripe cotton, vast swathes of it, resembling improbable fields of summer snow. It was his duty to deliver it safely to the gin at Duggan. He shrugged a little as the unfamiliar responsibility settled uncomfortably on his shoulders.
A movement out the window caught his eye. A wind had sprung up, stirring the leaves of the browned-off camellias. Sophie was giving the geese a flying lesson, throwing bread and racing in wild circles, arms extended. Dark tangled hair whipped her face. The birds spiralled about her, wings outstretched. She looked otherworldly, like some pagan princess. Little wonder she didn’t fit in at Drover’s Flat Central. He pulled down the blind. First things first. Solve their cash problems.
Ric pushed open the door of the dining room that Dad used as an office. Up until now he’d avoided going in there. The remembered fragrance of potpourri had been replaced with the acrid odour of cigars. The graceful teak table looked wrong without Mum’s lace cloth and a vase of fresh flowers. Stacked papers covered its surface in a confused jumble, some piles so tall they teetered on the edge of collapse.
Ric plucked a few sheets from the table at random. A fertiliser bill from five years ago. A two-year-old letter from the bank. A flyer for the Rural Fire Service. He soon discovered there was no rhyme or reason to the piles of paper. There were sealed letters too. He flipped through them – AgriSuper, Bush Heritage, Discount Cigar World. Ric tossed them aside unopened. He’d need a lot of coffee to tackle this lot. His first instinct was to call Nina. She was always in his thoughts, her name asking to be spoken, her face in his mind’s eye.
Ric hadn’t seen her since she threw him out. He didn’t blame her; she was sticking up for her father. But how could they fix things if she wouldn’t talk to him? The police had interviewed Jim more than once now. The whole town knew it. Of course that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Ric had been interviewed himself about Dad’s disappearance. But Nina wanted an assurance that he didn’t doubt her father. How could he give it in good conscience, with Max still missing and greater suspicion falling on Jim with each passing day?
No, he needed to forget about Nina for now. It would be a relief, to go from wanting to forgetting. If he could pull it off. If he could bear the loneliness and niggling jealousy. The idea of Lockie hanging around Red Gums . . .
Ric sighed. Might as well get on with it. He searched out an empty cardboard box and dropped it on the floor for a rubbish bin. Then he lined up the chairs along the wall and began sorting, using the seats as a filing system. Bills here: phone, power, rates. Receipts there. More bills than receipts, it seemed. Letters from seed suppliers and chemical companies over here. Correspondence more than two years old over there. Letters from the bank, the accountant and Dad’s solicitor earned their own special piles on the sideboard, beside the green glass decanter and dusty liquor glasses. He found boxes of memories packed away too, letters and photographs. He put a framed photo of Max on the table, and another of Mum and Dad, just married, eyes bright with love. Hours slipped by, and a disturbing picture began to emerge.
The last few harvests had actually been pretty ordinary. It looked like Donnalee hadn’t turned much of a profit for years, but you wouldn’t know it from the outgoings. When it came to the farm, Dad had been spending like it was going out of fashion. There were the usual chemicals and fertilisers, but he’d also forked out a fortune on expensive varieties of transgenic cottonseed. Spent dazzling amounts on purchasing water licences and building the new dams. He’d modernised equipment. The farm operating account was in the red by hundreds of thousands of dollars. Who’d have thought Dad would turn into a massive spender in his old age? Ric smiled wryly. Not enough of one to trade in that old rust bucket of a station wagon.
Sophie came in and wandered about looking at things. She picked up the photo of Max. ‘Poppi.’ Her eyes lit up. ‘Dad, look, it’s Poppi.’
‘Thought we might put it in the kitchen.’
‘Who are they?’ Sophie pointed to the wedding photo.
‘That’s Poppi when he was young.’ Ric came over. ‘And your grandmother, Bianca.’
‘My grandmother? I always wanted a grandmother,’ said Sophie softly, running a fingertip over the glass. ‘She’s beautiful. Is she dead?’
‘No, no, she’s not dead.’ He felt guilty that he hadn’t had this conversation with Sophie earlier. ‘She lives in Italy.’
‘Does she know about me?’
‘Course she does.’ It had taken Ric some time to pluck up the courage to tell his mother about Sophie. But he needn’t have worried. She’d been excited and curious about her new granddaughter, unsatisfied with the sketchy information he’d been able to provide, and full of questions. What was Sophie’s favourite colour? Her favourite thing to do, favourite song, food, subject at school . . . ‘I don’t know,’ he’d said. ‘I’ve just met her.’
‘Your grandma’s really happy to have you in the family.’
Sophie beamed with pleasure. ‘Can I keep this picture in my room?’
‘Sure.’ She ran off with it while Ric examined the next bank statement. Dad had opened up a line of credit on Donnalee’s title. And that account hadn’t just been used for emergency expenses – it had also been used for day-to-day items. Cigars from the tobacconist in Moree, for example. Goddamnit, Dad had been living off the equity in the farm, running it down. They owed the bank a fortune. Ric swore, and went to get more coffee. He could almost hear his mother’s voice. She’d always put such great stock in the virtue of living debt-free. Used to lecture him about it all the time. ‘Never spend your money before it’s earned, Ricco,’ she’d say. ‘You get in debt? You become a slave. Soon choices aren’t your own any more.’
Ric headed for the kitchen. He needed a coffee. There was no sugar in the bowl. He hunted around in the cupboards while the pot brewed, but his search came up empty. They were low on milk too. Maybe he should make a run into town for supplies? He checked his wallet. Twenty dollars. Twenty dollars and that was it. What would he do when that was gone?
His stomach grumbled. Lunch time. Since Dad disappeared, he and Sophie had been living on sandwiches. He wasn’t much of a cook, except for pancakes, but it looked like he’d have to learn pretty soon. Ric opened the fridge. Not much left. Butter, a wilted lettuce, some eggs and a ham that was starting to go slimy. No way would Sophie eat that. Maybe if he cooked the ham a bit? He took it out and cut a few slices before wrapping it in foil and shoving it in the oven. Where was the bread? He’d taken the last loaf from the freezer just this morning. Not on the bench. Not in the pantry. He stood for a few moments in thought, and then it hit him. Sophie. She’d fed their last loaf of bread to those bloody birds. To hell with her. To hell with Dad. To hell with the lot of them.
He marched outside, calling for Sophie, yelling his displeasure to the rising wind. To the dust and the flies and empty dome of the sky. He marched across to the machinery shed, wrenched open the cabins of the tractors and pickers, searched the chicken coop and the abandoned greenhouse, scoured the haystack. No sign of her. He roared out her name, hearing the futile fury in his own voice, knowing that she wouldn’t come.
There was one place he hadn’t checked. He headed back to the house and caught his reflection in the cracked shaving mirror that hung from a nail beside the water tank. His father’s wild, furious eyes stared back at him. It was like seeing a ghost. Ric ducked under the verandah, too rattled to think straight. He forged carelessly into the darkness before his eyes had properly adjusted. A piece of old reo mesh snagged his boot and sent him crashing to the ground. He cracked his head on a timber crate on the way down. Ric lay there for a moment, spitting dust, the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. The fall had knocked the rage right out of him. Now tears mingled with the blood and dust, making a gluey mud that clung to his lips and cheek. Slowly he hauled himself to his feet. Just as well Sophie hadn’t come when he called. He was in no fit state to deal with a child right now, with anyone.
Ric swung open the doors of the coolroom, squinting as the light turned itself on. Half a side of mutton still hung from the butcher hooks and two round cheeses stood in the corner, traded no doubt for fish or game. Excellent. He opened the chest freezer. The dressed carcasses of a piglet and four rabbits. Ric opened a plastic-lined box. Damn it, Dad. Full of catfish. Before he could chase it off, an image of Nina’s horrified expression swam into his imagination. Bunyip’s iconic freshwater catfish were rare now, really rare. Everybody knew that. Nina said it was because of the carp, and the missing floods and the disappearing reed beds. Because of chemical runoff, and the freezing flows released from the base of Hopeton Dam in spring for the cotton. Cold water stopped them spawning. He never used to know this stuff, almost wished he still didn’t. But there was no unscrambling the egg. The voice of Nina’s conscience lived inside him now.
Ric closed the freezer lid, and his gaze fell on the eskies and boxes piled along the wall. He looked through the first box. Fish traps. The next one held nets, including illegal gillnets – rectangular panels of mesh designed to be set on the river bed. Any fish that swam into the net became entangled. They were also notorious for drowning turtles, rakali, water dragons and platypus. Jesus, Dad was incorrigible.
Ric opened the next box. A parcel wrapped in newspaper. It contained a plastic bag, and inside the bag were envelopes. Bingo. They were filled with wads of cash. Ric counted out the notes, making neat piles of different denominations. Tallied up, there was almost two thousand dollars. Plenty to live on for now. He’d forgotten about Donnalee’s black market trade in beef. Dad and his network bought and sold cattle, a few beasts at a time. They’d slaughter them privately, take what meat they needed and sell off the rest, thus avoiding the taxman. Lucky for him they operated on a cash basis only. What a relief. He could feel his stress levels evening out, his muscles relaxing, his mind calming.
Ric took the bag, locked up the cool-room and emerged from under the verandah. Sophie was hovering over near the chook house, watching him suspiciously. ‘I’m going into town,’ he said. ‘Want to come?’
‘I won’t go to school.’
‘Nah, it’s too late for that,’ said Ric. ‘Thought you might like the drive, that’s all. Help me with some shopping.’
She looked more interested. ‘Could we get ice-cream?’
‘Sure,’ he said. She still showed no sign of coming closer. ‘How about layers pellets?’ he asked. ‘Got enough food for the hens and those geese of yours?’
‘I’ve almost run out.’
‘Well, come on then,’ said Ric.
‘Do you have enough money for a DVD?’ asked Sophie. ‘I saw The Black Stallion on sale at the supermarket.’
‘I think we can manage that,’ he said. ‘Lock up those birds and brush your hair.’ Feigning indifference, he walked off towards the house, watching her from the corner of his eye.
The temptation was apparently too much. After a few moments’ indecision, Sophie led the geese into the pens Max had built them, shut the gate and trotted to the back door. The birds paraded up and down the fence, protesting her departure with long honking calls. Ric turned off the oven in the kitchen, and transferred some cash from the bag into his wallet. Sophie came running from her room, hair neatly brushed. Well, that was a turn-up. Dad might still be missing, Nina might still be angry and he still had a cotton harvest to organise somehow. But his cash flow problem was temporarily solved and Sophie was smiling.
Back from town and Ric was busy going through the papers again. He stopped sorting and listened. Was that laughter? He went out to the hall and peered into the lounge room. Yes, Sophie was giggling in short, high bursts. The soft, glad sound helped ease his aching heart. He hadn’t heard her laugh since Dad disappeared. The Black Stallion was over and Sophie had moved on to Beethoven. They’d taken advantage of the two-for-one deal at the supermarket, but hadn’t saved any money. They’d just bought double the number of DVDs. Sophie still had Beverly Hills Chihuahua and FernGully to go.
His daughter had almost been well behaved since their trip to the shop. She’d helped him wash the dishes. She’d had a shower. And after extracting a promise that she wouldn’t have to go to school the next day, she’d agreed to put the geese outside for the night. All except Odette, of course. Her favourite goose was sitting beside her on the couch, but at least the bird was on a towel. Sophie giggled again as the St Bernard puppy on screen barked along to some classical music. A can of Coke and a big bowl of chips sat on the coffee table in front of her. A big improvement on milk and figs, in Sophie’s estimation at least. Ric crept away before she saw him, and fetched another beer from the kitchen. He checked the time. Six o’clock, and he didn’t have to worry about dinner, just pop the frozen pizzas in the oven. But not yet. Sophie was still full of chips and lollies, and he wanted to keep organising the dining room.
A wave of missing Nina crashed in on him. How perfect it would be to have her here, sharing his beer and pizza, sharing his bed. On an impulse, he found her number in his phone and pressed call. Then he changed his mind just as quickly. She probably wouldn’t answer and, anyway, the stolen water, her lack of faith, Dad’s disappearance – those things stood squarely between them. He cast the idea of her from his mind. Right now he had more pressing responsibilities – to Dad, to Sophie, and to the cotton.
Ric resumed sorting. The table was almost empty now. Pale paper towers rose like a mini city skyline around the edges of the room. He stood with his back against the sideboard. What to tackle next? Idly he opened the drawer beside him. Once it had contained silver napkin rings and cake servers and little glass dessert bowls. Now it was filled with papers instead. He pulled out a bundle of documents with a rubber band around it. A bank statement slipped out and fell to the floor. He retrieved it and looked at the date. Just three weeks ago. That couldn’t be right. An enormous injection of funds had gone into the farm operating account. Enough to put it back into credit. Where had the money come from?
Ric moved a pile from one of the seats, pulled the chair over to the table and sat down with the bundle. Somehow he had to make sense of all this. The first document was a thick sheaf of stapled pages titled Business Plan in Support of Loan Application. He flipped through it – balance sheets, columns of profit and loss, copies of recent income tax returns. Ric returned to the start and began reading. Fuck. It was an expansion plan prepared by Dad’s accountant – a proposal for the purchase of Billabong Bend. Estimated purchase price, analysis of the cost of converting to cotton, projection of income for the next five years.
He put it down and flicked through the rest of the papers until he found a letter from the bank. Confirmation of the loan. It had been granted as per the business plan and was conditional upon the expansion of Donnalee Station, via the purchase of Billabong Bend. Beneath the letter was the actual loan agreement, signed by his father. He read through it carefully, struggling with the legalese. Why couldn’t these bloody lawyers just say what they meant? He got to the repayment provisions. Impossibly large annual payments, the first one due in ten months. At least he had some time up his sleeve. Now to the conditions. Shit, if he didn’t make an offer on Billabong Bend, they’d be violating the terms of the agreement. The bank could call in the loan and demand immediate payment. But the original debt on the farm account had already swallowed up half of Dad’s new advance. They couldn’t afford to pay the lot back at once, not until after harvest, maybe not even then. The only way out of this mess was forward.
Ric scratched his jaw, took the empty to the kitchen and put the pizzas in the oven. He grabbed another beer and faced the window, staring into the middle distance, looking but not seeing as the red sun sank from the sky. His heartbeat echoed in his ears. The auction was next week. Dad, wherever he was, had locked them into buying Billabong and converting it to cotton. There was no way around it. And he’d doomed any chance Ric might have with Nina at the same time.