The rain didn’t stop later that day. It didn’t stop that night when he and Sophie ate their Sunday roast dinner of the last of the wild pork. It didn’t stop on Monday morning when he drove Sophie to school, or in the afternoon when he picked her up. On top of that, the Moree police hadn’t returned his calls and Nina wouldn’t even take them. When he dropped over to Red Gums, either she was out or she wouldn’t answer the door. Frustration was rising like the river. The swollen Bunyip was threatening the bridge on the Donnalee road to town. When Ric did a final check on Monday evening, a muddy torrent already swirled around the struts beneath the wooden spans.
Ric woke on Tuesday morning after a restless night and it was still damn well raining. He looked across at the alarm clock. Dead. Great. The power out again, and Dad hadn’t taught him the knack of starting the dodgy generator. How late was it anyway? He couldn’t judge by looking out the window. The world was a wall of grey. When he went to wake Sophie, she refused to get out of bed. ‘What about our deal?’
‘The deal’s still on, Dad,’ came her muffled reply from under the blankets. ‘But I haven’t seen any horse yet.’ Ric let it go. She was safer at home in this weather anyway. He stood out on the porch and watched the rain. The mutter of the rising river had grown louder. Better check out the bridge.
After solid days of rain, the ground had quenched its thirst. No longer did it suck the moisture down to its heart, but instead let it lie on the surface in ever-widening puddles. Ric took the bike down the drive, dodging the brimming potholes, and turned onto the road. The mutter became a roar and his heart sank. The old bridge was awash, swallowed by the river. As he watched, the current pulled a section of deck from its support timbers. It rose to the surface then plunged downstream. Hell, that was a first. What was he supposed to do now? This was the only road to town, without taking a hundred-kilometre detour. And with the river this high, there was no guarantee he’d get through the back way either.
Ric sat for a while, transfixed by the angry water. A dead sheep floated past, grotesque and bloated. A tin box that might once have been somebody’s pumphouse. A runaway dinghy. An entire tree, huge root ball and all, buoyed along by the current. Its trunk ploughed into another section of the damaged bridge, splintering it and ripping it from its footings. Ric tore himself away. Better get home. At this rate he’d need to move the steers to higher ground. He tried not to think about the cotton. Harvest was looking more and more like a busted flush.
Back at the house, he poured himself a cup of cold coffee and lit the stove, trying to shake off his nerves. There was something sinister about the washed-away bridge, as if the river had deliberately cut them off from the rest of the world. One good thing, though – the landline still worked. He rang the school and explained, with a great deal of satisfaction, that the bridge was out. First time he’d ever had a legitimate excuse for Sophie’s absence.
How was Nina faring? Living on the other side of the river, at least she wasn’t cut off from town. And the homestead at Red Gums was on a rise. Not like at Donnalee. Ric called her for the umpteenth time. He couldn’t help himself. She might be in more trouble than he thought. She might want to know about the geese or Sophie. She might be ready to hear him apologise again. Hell, she might be missing him, like he was missing her. But the phone rang out as it always did.
Sophie emerged from the hallway, rubbing sleep from her eyes and with a blanket wrapped around her like a cape. She flicked the useless light switch and rolled her eyes. ‘I’m going back to bed.’
‘Soph, come into the kitchen for a minute. I want to talk to you.’
‘What about?’
‘About this new horse of yours.’ That got her attention. She shuffled after him, blanket and all, and pulled a chair up to the flaring stove.
‘We could look at that Horse Deals magazine. You can show me your favourites again.’
‘I’ll go get it.’ She ran off. He poured a bowl of Rice Bubbles and looked in the fridge. No milk. He picked at the dry cereal with his fingers.
Sophie arrived carrying the magazine, with its dozens of bookmarked pages. ‘I like this one . . . and this one . . . and this one.’
He looked doubtfully at her choices. A Clydesdale in Queensland. A racehorse in Melbourne. A Warmblood stallion in Tasmania. ‘What about this one?’ He scrolled through his phone to the photo of Gino’s sister’s black galloway.
‘It’s beautiful. What’s its name?’
‘Midnight.’
‘Boy or a girl?’
‘Girl,’ he said. ‘A ten-year-old black mare named Midnight, just the right size for you. And she lives right here in Drover’s. We can’t buy her till next month, but they’ll hold her for us and we can visit anytime. You can ride her, try her out.’
‘Wish Mum could see her . . .’
‘We’ll send her some photos.’
‘And Nina too. She hasn’t finished teaching me to ride. I haven’t even cantered yet.’ She gave him a stern look. ‘You really should stop fighting with Nina.’
From the mouths of babes. ‘I’ll try.’ He held up his hand. ‘Scout’s honour.’
She giggled. ‘Were you ever a scout?’
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘By the way, the bridge is washed out. You won’t have to go to school.’
Much to Ric’s surprise, Sophie looked put out. ‘Can’t we take the boat into town?’
‘Not when the river’s running so high. Too dangerous.’
‘But I want to tell Shian about Midnight. She’s got her own horse too. We can go riding together. Maybe she can join my pony club.’
‘I thought you didn’t have any friends?’
Sophie smiled. ‘Maybe just one.’ She let the blanket fall from her shoulders, and gave him a hug, the first one ever. It felt very good to see Sophie happy. Lord knows, there’d been little enough happiness at Donnalee lately.
‘I’m going to tell Odette and the others.’ She slipped from her chair, pulled the blanket back around her, and started for the door.
‘Sophie . . .’
‘Guess what I’ve called the little goose. Igor, just like you wanted. It’s actually a good name, Dad.’
He tried to remember. That’s right. He’d suggested naming the runt Igor, because of its crooked neck and limping gait. ‘I thought you didn’t like it.’
‘I do now,’ she said. ‘It’s perfect. One of the geese in that movie was called Igor. He was little too.’
‘What movie?’
‘You know. That movie the other day, about the other mother-goose girl.’ She turned to go.
‘Sophie, wait, about your geese.’ He patted the chair next to him and she sat back down. ‘I’ve found them a new home, at a special sanctuary.’ She drew her knees up to her chest. ‘You’ll be able to visit them whenever you want.’
‘You can’t take them. They’re mine. Poppi gave them to me.’
‘You heard what Nina said. Instinct will make them fly away in the dry season, but without parents to guide them they’ll get confused and lost. You don’t want them hurt, do you?’
‘Can’t we make them stay here somehow?’
‘Not without locking them up all the time. And what’s going to happen when you go home to your mum? I won’t have time to wait on them hand and foot like you do.’
‘Dad, you can’t take them.’ Her eyes welled with tears. ‘I won’t let you.’
‘I’m sorry, Sophie.’ He tried to put his arm around her but she shook him away. ‘I really am, but we can’t keep the geese.’ He sighed and threw another log into the stove. ‘I have to move the steers now. Just think about Midnight. If you want Midnight, the geese will have to go.’
‘That’s blackmail.’ Her voice spiralled higher as she ran from the room. ‘I hate you. I wish you were dead instead of Poppi.’
Ric strapped a bale of hay on the back of the bike and headed out in the pouring rain. It was easier than he’d imagined to move the cattle, much easier than managing Sophie. They crowded along the top fence line, lowing anxiously, facing the trees along the riverbank. A tall black steer with a baldy face stamped a foot and tossed his horns. He raised his head high, sniffing the air, smelling the danger.
Ric opened the gate and the cattle rushed after him. There wasn’t much high ground at Donnalee, but he locked them in the top corner paddock, as far away from the threat as he could. They huddled together, still facing the river. One by one they began to bellow, a deep-throated, apprehensive bawling that jangled his nerves. Ungrateful things. They were a lot safer here if the river kept rising than he and Sophie would be back at the house.