BURRANGONG, SEPTEMBER 1978
Arjun dozed for a while, sitting on the concrete, his back against the rubbish bin. But when he opened his eyes Mrs Mack lay still, her breathing imperceptible.
Panicked, he felt her hand, and then her cheek. She was alive, but she was so cold too. She should have told him the water had risen over the seat of the bike. There’d been room for both of them in the bin . . .
No, he thought. There hadn’t been. And the bin would probably have toppled over or its pedestal broken if they’d tried.
Should he put her in the bin now? But that would be even colder than where she was in the sun, and she needed sleep. Instead, he put his arms around her, trying to share what warmth he had.
She muttered something as he pulled her closer to the bin, then, still holding her, took up the rock and began to beat the SOS again with one hand, three short, three long and three short and repeat, even more loudly this time, hoping to wake her up, hoping she would wake up, could wake up.
Her eyes opened. She said, ‘Shh. Stop.’
He stopped, and slowly, she sat up.
And then he heard it. A whistle, far off across the water, coming from the town. Beepbeep bip bipbipbip . . .
‘What —?’ he began, but she held her hand up for him to hush, the hand with only two fingers and a thumb.
Bipbipbip bipbeep beepbeepbip bip . . .
The sound went on and on. Arjun watched her wrinkled eyes focus as she worked it out, as the whistle faded and vanished in the noise of wind and trees and water and then returned.
At last she grinned. Energy seemed to have seeped back into her.
‘That whistle said, Message received. They’re coming to get us! Probably only a rowboat, so it’ll take a couple of hours at least. Alan says blighters won’t let him come because of his gammy knees.’
She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out yet another block of chocolate, fruit and nut this time. ‘Always keep one in reserve,’ she said, breaking it and handing him half again. ‘You never know when you might need it.’
‘You always keep so many blocks of chocolate with you?’
She laughed. ‘I’m not telling you how much chocolate I have, sonny boy. Some things stay secret. But there were times I got stuck by a flooded river when I was delivering the mail or had to detour around a bushfire. The chocolate came in handy then. And a piece of chocolate from Grandma’s pocket is a good remedy for a whining kid.’
So she had grandkids. Did they know this story? Did her sons and daughter? ‘You said you’ve never spoken about that time in France. Not even to your children?’
‘Especially not to them,’ she said seriously. ‘Young people need their own lives, not the adventures of their parents.’
The night’s story had been a gift to him, he realised, poured out in the hours of dark, to keep his fear away. It had kept them warm, or warm enough to stay alive.
This old woman was a survival expert.
She smiled, and lay down again, with her hands under her head once more. ‘May as well be comfortable,’ she said. ‘The sun should dry us out soon. Hope Alan brings a Thermos with him in the rowboat. I’d love a cup of tea.’
‘You said they wouldn’t take him.’
‘No, I said they said they wouldn’t take him. Alan always gets the message through. He’ll be here.’ Mrs McLain shut her eyes, and, still smiling, nibbled at her chocolate.