‘You’re going to school, and that’s final. Now go get dressed and pack your bag.’ Sophie threw Ric a mutinous look, then disappeared down the hall. Ric went to the kitchen and made her a vegemite sandwich for lunch. He was more out of his depth than ever when it came to his daughter. Ric cling-wrapped the sandwich and added a small packet of Twisties and a mandarin to the lunch box before snapping on the lid.
The geese started up an excited honking, like they did when they were let out. He dashed down the hall. Curtains waved at the open window and her room was empty. Damn it. He sank down on the bed. Don’t react, he told himself. Take a moment to calm down.
When he raised his head, something caught his eye. A coloured-in envelope on the dresser, addressed in a childish scrawl. Sophie’s latest letter to her mother. He picked it up, turned it over, ran his finger along the smooth, gummed edge of its unsealed flap. Then he pulled out the two sheets of paper, covered in hearts and flowers.
Dear Mum,
I miss you. Its been a long time since you sent me a letter. hope you get better soon. my geese can fly. Im glad today is friday. I hate it here. My teacher thinks I’m stupid. poppi’s gone and so is nina. Its just Dad and me now and he doesn’t care. He’s even forgotten about my horse. Its hot in my room. Is it hot in your room? I hope you have a fan. I don’t. I would run away like last time but I don’t know where you are and I cant leave my geese anyway. They depend on me. I love you VERY much. XXXOOO
goodbye and sweet dreams,
love from your special girl Sophie
PS I lost my tooth in pizza.
Ric slipped the letter back into the envelope. Then he took it out and read it again, committing each word to memory. He dragged his hands over his hair. Jesus, what a fool he’d been.
The sound of an engine starting up came through the open window. The quad bike. Ric bolted for the door, but the bike had already disappeared down the laneway. He grabbed the keys and took after it in the station wagon.
There she was, heading west towards the storage. Ric took a second look, unsure at first of what he was seeing. Dust wasn’t the only thing following in the wake of the bike. Sophie’s geese were racing close behind, bouncing and hopping with wings spread wide. Ric drew nearer. One goose sprang higher than the rest and with a few uncertain wing strokes became airborne. It levelled out and soared a few inches above Sophie’s head as she wrestled with the bike, skirting a pothole and slowing to negotiate the bone-rattling corrugations beyond the bull yards.
They sped up as they neared the water, and Ric hung back, captivated by the scene. Now more geese took flight, overtaking the bike, four, five . . . six of them. Hard to believe these beautiful birds were the ungainly goslings of two months ago. The bike reached the dam. In a display of synchronised grace, the flying geese folded their wings and settled on the water, sailing like miniature galleons on its rippled surface. Then they turned and swam back to Sophie, and each bowed its head in turn, as if in tribute.
Ric pulled up as the quad bike rabbit-hopped to a stop. The four earth-bound geese ran flapping and honking, up over the levee and into the water to join the others. Sophie climbed the bank and cheered, jumping up and down, clapping her hands. He wanted to join in. It was the damnedest thing he’d ever seen.
Ric dragged a boot through the dust and jammed his hands in his jean pockets. He almost wished she wouldn’t turn around. It would be a shame to spoil the moment for her. But the inevitable happened, and Sophie’s look of delight turned to one of sullen defiance. She’d been crying. Her red cheeks emphasised how young she really was. He forgot sometimes.
The geese waddled from the water and formed a protective ring around her. Odette hissed at him. Ric strode forward, pushing the geese away with his foot so he could reach the bike. Odette spread her wings and bit his leg as he mounted the bike. ‘Get on.’ Sophie climbed up behind him.
‘Careful,’ she said, as he reversed and headed back down the laneway. The geese honked in consternation and ran after them. Ric increased his speed. The next moment a shadow fell across his face. Looking up, he saw the long neck and head of a goose stretched out above him, just inches from his head, like the brim of some bizarre hat. He could feel the breeze of its wing strokes. Now another and another crowded the air. They flew so close a wingtip brushed his cheek. Sophie laughed and Ric shouted with excitement. He wanted to fly properly, leave the dusty ground and lead the birds into the skies. What a buzz that would be.
They veered round the corner. The flock veered too, in tight formation. They approached the house, and the geese landed all around as the bike rolled to a stop. They shook their heads, preening and calling as if nothing unusual had happened. Ric shook his head too and grinned. ‘That was amazing.’ He kissed Sophie’s cheek and for once she didn’t complain. A faint flush of pleasure coloured her face. ‘How did you teach them to do that?’
‘I didn’t teach them,’ said Sophie. ‘They just do it by themselves. One time I took the bike and they weren’t locked up properly. They’re so clever they can wiggle the catch. Next thing they were flying after me.’
So she’d been riding the quad bike behind his back. He didn’t have the heart to tell her off. He might never have the heart again. In a carefully measured tone, he said, ‘That was very cool, but you mustn’t ride the bike. It’s not safe.’ She opened her mouth to protest. ‘How about from now on I go with you? We can both take your geese for a fly?’
Sophie’s eyes lit up. ‘You’d come with me?’
‘Sure I would. Now shut away those birds and get ready for school.’
For once she didn’t argue. Ric found himself thinking about the Christmas phone call with his mother, when she’d wanted to know more about her new granddaughter. Three months on, and he still wouldn’t be able to answer most of her questions. How was he going to get through to Sophie? Without Max, without Nina . . . Just the two of them, like Sophie had said in the letter. It was up to him now.
Sophie slipped into the lounge room. She wore her school dress and had made a fair attempt to brush her hair. ‘What’s your favourite colour?’ he asked her.
‘Why do you want to know that?’
‘Do I need a reason?’
‘Green,’ said Sophie.
‘Green . . . that’s a very good colour.’ He nodded in satisfaction and she stared at him like he was mad. ‘You’ve missed the bus, by the way. Guess I’ll have to drive you.’
‘I hate the bus. There’s this big boy on it. Brodie. He calls me names and says Poppi was murdered. Was Poppi murdered, Dad?’
‘No, of course not,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you’ve been having problems on the bus?’
She shrugged.
‘Would you like me to talk to the principal?’
‘No.’ She frowned. ‘You’ll make it worse.’
‘Then I’ll drive you to and from school until we find out what’s happened to Poppi. No arguments.’ Her smile was small but it was there.
Soon they were bumping down the potholed road to Drover’s Flat. It seemed the perfect time for a long overdue talk. Sophie was a captive audience, after all. ‘I owe you an apology. We never followed up on that horse,’ he said. ‘I’ve been so distracted with looking for Poppi . . . How about I get one of those Horse Deals magazines at the general store and we go through it tonight?’
Sophie’s expression brightened. ‘Can I tell people at school?’
‘Sure you can. But remember, no more wagging classes.’ Ric slowed down to negotiate a badly corrugated section of road, then extended a hand to his daughter. ‘And we’re going to set aside some time each night to do your homework. Together. You never know, I might learn something. Deal?’
Sophie shook his hand. ‘Deal.’
The bullet-riddled sign said Drover’s Flat, population 701, elevation 130 metres. Why anybody should care about the altitude of a town marooned in these flatlands had always puzzled Ric. They drove across the river, past the dilapidated church and into the main drag. There was a garage. A post office. A little supermarket, and the produce store run by Nina’s parents. When they reached the school, Sophie showed no inclination to leave the car. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Only one more day, then it’s the weekend.’
Sophie sighed, climbed over the back seat and kicked open the stiff door. ‘Don’t forget to post my letter,’ she said, then headed through the gate and up the concrete path to the buildings. Nobody ran to greet her. Nobody waved or said hello. She cut a lonely figure in the playground.
If only he could ask Dad’s advice about Sophie. Ric missed Max with a vengeance. It was so unfair. Just when they were getting to know each other, putting the animosity of their past behind them. Just when they were properly becoming father and son.
Ric missed him on a purely practical level too. The crop was almost ready for harvest, the dying fields turning snowy white. In another week there’d be nothing but stalks, standing stark brown and dead against the everlasting blue of the sky. Groaning beneath a woolly weight of cottonseed, poised to surrender their rich bounty of fibre. With the help of his cousin Tony, Ric had hired a contracting team, but it was expensive compared to organising it himself. Very expensive. Only the prospect of such a bumper crop could justify the cost.
Ric had taken Tony, a cotton grower himself at Moree, on a tour of Donnalee. He’d surveyed the heavily laden plants with envious eyes. ‘Never seen anything like it,’ he said. ‘And all that water? That’s Max thumbing his nose at this goddamned drought. Thumbing his nose at God himself.’ There was a faraway look in his eye. ‘Can’t believe he’s really gone, can you? That he won’t be here to see this lot harvested. What a buzz he’d have got from that, eh? You’ve got to get this right, Ric. Got to get this harvest in. It’ll be the last thing you can do for Max, kind of like a tribute.’
Thanks, Tony. Thanks for piling on the pressure. Now if he failed, it would be tantamount to dishonouring his dead father.
Ric drove on past the produce store, even though he needed pellets for Sophie’s geese. He couldn’t stomach seeing Nina’s father – serving customers, loading trucks, going about his day while his own father lay lost in some mosquito-infested swamp.
Oh. Nina’s black Rodeo was parked outside the general store. Well, however tough it might be, he needed to post Sophie’s letter and get a few things. A deep breath and he was going in. Part of him hoped things might still work out between him and Nina. Even though she was obsessed with preserving Billabong as some kind of a shrine to nature. If he could only explain things. He hadn’t asked for this. Hell, up until now he’d been her biggest supporter. He’d helped take Eva to Billabong. He hadn’t liked the idea of taking the old woman back there, not at all. But he’d gone along with it for Nina’s sake because he loved her. Because he wanted Billabong to be hers.
Well, like it or not, the place belonged to him now. Ric got out of the car and headed down the street towards the store, tilting his hat against the glaring sun. He’d never known weather like this. Already April and still no autumn break. Dust ruled. Clouds came and went and didn’t bother trying to rain any more. Even the street trees were shrivelling, the tough little crepe myrtles lining the bitumen. The whole world seemed ready to dry up and blow away.
He was a few strides from the door now. It opened, ringing the tiny bell, and two people emerged. Nina . . . and Lockie. Bloody Lockie. They stopped when they saw him, and Nina’s gorgeous eyes flashed danger.
‘Morning, Nina.’
She and Lockie exchanged a look and jealousy burned through him. Had Lockie’s hands trailed along her skin last night? Had his lips touched hers? The idea was unbearable. Lockie’s expression remained wooden, but betrayed a certain self-satisfaction around the eyes. Ric’s knuckles tightened into fists. He forced his fingers open, but they had a mind of their own and clenched tight again. Perhaps his fingers were right. Perhaps all his misery would depart with a single blow to Lockie’s smug face.
Nina ducked around him. Lockie followed, hand on her elbow, shouldering him a fraction as he went by. Ric bristled, shoved him back and the two men turned to face each other, stiff-legged, like two dogs spoiling for a fight. Nina pushed her way between them, close enough that he could feel her sweet breath on his face. Her eyes flew up to his and the physical pull was strong. Surely Nina felt it too? He swore that if his arms reached for her, she would be in them.
Lockie’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s your problem?’
‘Don’t,’ said Nina. ‘He’s not worth it.’
Ric stepped back like he’d been struck. She turned and walked away. Lockie shot him a poisonous glance and hurried after her.
‘You poor bastard,’ said Ric beneath his breath, disgusted with himself. ‘You poor lovesick bastard.’ Forget Nina Moore. Time to get a grip, to stop mooning around after her. He wandered the aisles of the general store for the groceries he needed, bought a fan for Sophie’s room, remembered her horse magazine. He put the shopping in the car and counted his cash. It had to last for a while longer yet. Six weeks before he’d see any harvest money.
Ric scratched the unfamiliar stubble on his chin. He still needed food for the chooks and geese, but was more determined than ever not to patronise the produce store. Instead he drove to the Royal Hotel, a place where he was guaranteed to find a sympathetic ear and with any luck, some layers pellets. He pushed in the door. Gino was polishing the bar. ‘Bit early for a drink, isn’t it?’
‘Morning, Gino. You’ve got chooks, right?’
‘Not just chooks.’ Gino stood up straight. ‘Show birds, mate. Bloody champions. Silkies, Old English Game bantams, Plymouth Rocks . . . Got ’em all.’ He stopped polishing and his old eyes grew dreamy. ‘Just moved into ducks as well. Absolutely love ’em.’ He pulled out his wallet and showed Ric a photo of a pretty black duck with a blue-green sheen. ‘Took out champion Cayuga female with this little beauty at Moree this year. Not bad for a duck beginner, eh?’
Ric tried to look suitably impressed and hide his amusement at the same time.
Gino inspected his face. ‘What’s up? You after some birds?’
‘God, no,’ said Ric. ‘I’ve already got enough damn birds at home as it is.’ Gino harrumphed and looked slightly hurt. ‘What I need is chook food. Can’t stomach the idea of handing money over to Jim Moore.’
Gino nodded. ‘Can’t blame you there. And you’re not the only one. A lot of fellas are boycotting that store.’ He beckoned for Ric to follow him. The old sheds out the back were filled with sacks of feed – chaff, bran and barley. Dog biscuits and horse nuts and calf meal. A semitrailer-load of hay was parked along the back fence. Gino shooed aside the inquisitive assortment of shining poultry roaming the yard. He pointed to a pallet of layers pellets. ‘Take a bag. It’s on the house.’ When Ric protested, Gino growled, ‘You wouldn’t argue with an old man, would you?’
He extended his hand and Ric shook it solemnly. ‘Thanks, mate.’
Gino smiled. ‘Just remember, the next one, you pay.’ Then his expression grew serious. ‘Your dad . . . still nothing?’
‘No.’ Ric swung the twenty-kilo bag onto his shoulders and started for the gate.
‘Put that in the car, then come and have a talk.’
Inside, Ric found Gino quarrelling with the coffee machine behind the bar while it grumbled and hissed in protest. He sat down and took off his hat. A bottle of marsala and two little glasses stood on the countertop. Gino turned, muttering curses under his breath. ‘That damn thing is more trouble than a woman.’ When he saw Ric, his scowl disappeared. He raised the bottle, asking the question with his bushy eyebrows.
‘Thought it was too early,’ said Ric.
‘Ah, chi se ne frega,’ said Gino with a dismissive wave of his hand. He poured them both some wine. ‘Salute.’ They both took a drink of the smooth, golden liquid, then another. Gino rolled his tongue about his lips, savouring each last drop. ‘How are you managing?’ he said. ‘You and your daughter?’
‘We’ll get there,’ said Ric. The hit of intense sweetness calmed him, loosened his tongue. ‘She wants a horse. Sophie. She wants a bloody horse and I’ve promised to get her one.’
Gino nodded sagely and topped up their glasses. ‘Your father had the same idea. Tell you where there’s a good horse. My sister Julia, she’s got one. Bombproof black mare, sweet as can be. Her girl was all fired up about going to pony club and then she changes her mind. Wants to play netball instead. That little horse? Just going to waste in a paddock.’ He took a sip, holding it in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. ‘Max already had me talk to Julia. He was all set on getting that horse for your Sophie, God bless him.’
‘Would your sister wait till the harvest’s in, do you think? I’m a bit short right now.’
‘I can ask her, but if you’re anything like your father, you’ll find a way to get hold of some cash in a hurry.’
Ric snorted. If he was anything like Max, he’d gamble the last of his cash at the TAB. Ric had never shared his father’s faith in lady luck, whether it was a crop in the ground or a horse in a race; whether it was stealing water or a wife threatening to leave. Dad always believed it would work out, that he’d win in the end.
Ric thought back to the last conversation he’d had with his father, the fateful morning of Max’s birthday. That little horse Sophie wants so much? It may not be too far away. I’ve got a plan to win us some money. What had his father meant? Did this plan have something to do with his disappearance?
Ric gazed about the dim bar. Framed black and white photographs of the river in its heyday lined the walls. Old paddle-steamers. Barges piled high with wheat and wool. The dry dock at Manning. Building the Hopeton Dam. His eyes were drawn to a particular photo – a huge Murray cod, strung up to a wooden beam. They didn’t grow them like that any more. It was an image from the Bunyip’s glory days, when it ran wild and untamed right through to the Barwon, the Darling and on down the Murray to the sea.
And Ric suddenly yearned for the river again, the way he’d yearned for it as a boy. When its shadowy reaches and strange, shifting light had utterly bewitched him. When it was all grace and beauty and poetry, and he’d measured it in more than megalitres. ‘Can you look after Sophie tonight?’
‘Good as done,’ said Gino. ‘It’ll make Enza a happy woman, to fuss over your little one. And I’ll show her my birds.’
‘Great. She’ll like that. I’ll drop her off after tea.’
‘But where are you going?’
‘Down the river, first thing in the morning.’ Ric stood up and put on his hat. ‘I’m going down the river.’